


When It All Goes Up In Flames

by tragicama



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Divergent Fusion, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Consent, Divergent Timelines, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Im real sorry, Loss of Virginity, M/M, No one is raped in this, Non-Con/Rape Outside of Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Derek, Protective Scott, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Were-Creatures, because it's important, but not really, it happened in the past, kind of, read the notes, so much happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 09:45:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 95,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10694451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicama/pseuds/tragicama
Summary: “What happened to you? Why are you bleeding?”“Because he’s an idiot.”“I didn’t know that idiocy caused people to just start spontaneously bleeding from the nose.”“I think it’s a new phenomenon.”or, the Divergent AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know how this happened. It was just supposed to be a 20k fic about rebellion but here were are.
> 
> Un'betad so don't be mean. But do feel free to point out errors.
> 
> I totally have Dylan O'Brien locked in my basement, so I own all of Teen Wolf. 
> 
> QUICK NOTE
> 
> This takes place in the time frame of Divergent, but everything is a little different. I incorporated things from both the book and movie, but Divergent doesn't actually exist, instead, it's Aberrant (which means the same thing).
> 
> NO KNOWLEDGE OF DIVERGENT IS REQUIRED TO UNDERSTAND THIS STORY. EVERYTHING IS EXPLAINED.
> 
> Enjoy.

There is only one bed in Stiles Stilinski’s house.

It sits in his dad’s room, on the ground without a headboard or stand to lay in, behind a clutter of chairs and a table that they move everyday out of the small corner of his parents’s bedroom. His sector only allows for one bed, because humans don’t deserve to have nice things.

He never gets to sleep on it, saves the rickety spring mattress as some semblance of comfort for his parents. He likes to think that one day, he’ll be able to own something as nice as a bed, but until that day comes, he’s still stuck on the hard ground of his square home in what used to be downtown Beacon Hills.

His sector is made up of the rest of the humans, living in the same conditions as he is. He tries not to dwell on it, doesn’t think it’s worth thinking about since he’s been living in the same clay hut for the past eighteen years of his life. If things haven’t changed in the course of his lifetime, they definitely aren’t going to.

Stiles can’t really blame the system. It was put into place after the fourth World War, as a means to an end. Only, it hasn’t end. He can’t remember a time where the sector system wasn’t enabled, even in his classes where he learned about it’s history. Education is valued above all else, and even measly humans get to be taught something.

He knows a lot for a human, which sometimes gets him in trouble. Humans are the inferior to all of the other races, whether it be supernatural or genetically inclined. But there aren't many humans who want to leave. If someone leaves, they're leaving their family. If someone leaves, they have to be confronted with all of the supernatural, and humans are programed to fear the supernatural.

It's never bothered Stiles the way he sees it bother the others. Supernaturality is something he's grown accustomed to, and nothing is going to change like the people in his sector hope it will.

It’s been this way for years. There are five sectors in their society, organized to keep people safe. Those who are too educationally apt belong to Tutelage. The banshees and the genetically-altered are the ones who normally come from that sector. They know _everything._

The Amicitia provide for the land. Their mostly made up of peace-loving people, like the kitsunes, the druids. People who live in harmony. Stiles has never met an Amicitian who isn’t smiling.

Probity are the honest people, the ones who make the rules. Honor and integrity, with being brutally honest, come with these people, like the oni, and the magical people. Stiles gets irritated by the amount of truth he hears from them on a daily basis. Sometimes he wishes they wouldn’t tell the truth, if only to be able to lie in his own mind.

The next sector is Valiant. Werewolves, and were-anythings actually, including kanimas, make up this sector. They’re the military, the police. They protect the people within the Wall. Stiles has always been fascinated with them, dreamt of being one of them. When he was little, he used to try to run with them, but their enhanced abilities made it challenging for a tiny human like him to keep up. His parents didn’t like it, and his mother always told him not to run with wolves. Maybe someday Stiles will listen.

And then there’s Stiles’s sector. The one made up by the humans and the submissives. Idem, it’s called, the word ‘inferior’ practically embedded in the name. His sector is the one that is shunned, not even given a second glance. They’re not trusted with anything, not even allowed to have representatives that are sent to the Nemeton to organize the government. The Probity are the ones who govern the sectors, but other sectors believe that they should be in control. It’s starting to cause problems, and not even the peace treaty that was signed in the beginning of the sector foundation seems to hold it’s meaning anymore.

Stiles’s sector is holding the Test this year. It’s not often that humans are trusted with anything, so there’s a big fuss about looking presentable and being on their best so their entrusted with more important things like hosting the Choosing in the future.

Stiles thinks the Test is stupid. It’s supposed to tell him where he fits in, where he belongs. It’s not uncommon to choose a different sector than the one a person was born in, but it doesn’t look good on a sector when they lose too many people are loose people providing as assets to that sector. Stiles doesn’t really feel like he belongs anywhere, but he doesn’t want to end up like the Unus, the ones who have no sector, who truly don’t belong anywhere. Idems are supposed to take care of the Unus because the rest of the sectors look down on Idem like they are the ones who are sectorless. It’s only fitting that those who don’t belong and those who are isolated take care of each other. Stiles thinks that’s the biggest lie there is, but he’s not allowed to think that, not allowed to even express his opinion.

Today is the day he finds out where he belongs. He’s scared that it might not be in Idem, where his family and friends are, but he’s even more scared that the Test is going to tell him to stay. He doesn’t want to leave his family, but also wants to do something bigger with his life, not just be looked over and discriminated against just because of how he was born. The sectors are tailored specifically for the ones who know where they belong, for the people who typically inhabit them, but any race is allowed to be apart of any sector. His best friend, Scott, is a werewolf, bitten when he got to close to the Wall by a were who went feral. He belongs in Idem, too, but Stiles knows that at the Choosing tomorrow, he won’t choose to stay with the humans, no matter what he thinks of Stiles.

Today, Stiles will know where to be. The Test will tell him his life, where it plays out from there.

But what if he already knows?

-

The room he is taken to is very dark. It has no windows, only a wall length mirror taking up the expanse in front of a reclined metal chair in the middle of the room. There’s a man standing by a mounted cart computer, dark skinned and little older than he is expecting, who looks up when Stiles walks in.

“Hello.” He smiles at Stiles, giving him a tight-lipped once over.

“Hi.” He mumbles back, looking at the mirror and taking in his ragged appearance. He’s taken back to that morning, when his dad helped him pick out the power clothes, but the thin, barely there cloth makes Stiles look even more human at the sign of occasional poverty all humans experience. He wishes he could be anything but human in that moment.

There’s dark blue-tinged-purple bags under his eyes, the dark hair on top of his head in a frayed mock of order. It isn’t the first time that Stiles has seen his reflection today, either in the windows of his home or the dark puddles of passed rainwater, but it doesn’t stop him from being shocked at seeing the quality of which he brings on his person.

He looks away, not wanting to see himself anymore. It isn’t the first time he’s looked in a mirror and hated what he’s seen.

The man on the opposite side of the chair must notice his displease because he just smiles again, that smile people curl around their lips when they’re trying not to take pity. It makes Stiles slightly angry. The last thing he wants is anyone's pity. He looks down at the ground, trying not to show his reactions on his face. If the higher-ups hear that he was in any way disrespectful, he might be sectorless by the evening.

“My name is Alan Deaton,” The man says, drawing Stiles’s attention back to him. He again smiles, reassuring this time, and motions for Stiles to sit in the chair. “I’ll be your Test administrator. I’m normally a doctor, but today I’m one of theirs.”

Stiles looks to his hand, takes in a dark tree tattoo covering half of Deaton’s arm. The roots are wrapped around his arm like they’re springing from his flesh, and if Stiles wasn’t so nervous, he’d ask what is signifies.

Stiles sits on the chair, taken aback at how soft it is under him. The metal is cold under his skin, but the cushion is nothing that Stiles has felt before. He propels his legs up, lying reclined in the chair, and tries not to sigh in comfort. The lights above hurt his eyes, but the headrest underneath him is enough to make him content.

“Have you never laid on a chair before?” Deaton asks him, causing Stiles to look up and see his shocked expression.

“Not one this comfortable.” He replies, his voice echoing in the room, and Stiles hears the raspiness in his own tenor.

“Huh.” Is all Deaton responds, moving away to grab electrical wiring. He sticks one to Stiles’s head, and the cold feeling that amulets makes him shiver. “You Idems haven’t been exposed to real comfort.”

“We’ve never been allowed to.”

That seems to really shut him up. Deaton clears his throat, trying to get past the awkwardness, and hands Stiles a glass vial filled with a dark red liquid. “Here.”

“What is it?”

“A simulator.” Deaton responds, making a motion for Stiles to drink it. “Down the hatch.”

Stiles does, wincing at the taste. The liquid is blood red, but it tastes like a mixture between cough syrup and dirt. He’s been shoved down to the ground more times than he can count, so he knows what the latter tastes like, and he really wasn’t expecting such a vile taste.

It makes him relax, and without thinking he asks, “What’s with the tree?”

Deaton raises an eyebrow, “I’ve never met a curious Idem before.”

Stiles shrugs, looking away, and tries not to think about what he just asked. Goosebumps appear on his arm, and he shivers at his curiosity. Idems are made up of humans, and humans don’t get to ask questions. He’s carelessly thrown away his sector’s values, a betrayal to Idem in itself.

Deaton just chuckles, walking back to his cart to put the vial down after Stiles hands it to him, “I’m from Probity. I believe in honestly and I see things in black in white.” Stiles could have guessed that, honestly. He’s wearing black and white colors, and because Probity believe in all that honesty stuff, they don’t wear anything grey. Too much is hidden amongst the greys. “I’m also an emissary, and emissaries have balance. A tree is a scale within it’s nature, providing for the land and itself. It’s a good balance.” Deaton chuckles again, “And it looks cool.”

Stiles smiles slightly at that, leaning further back in his chair. The simulator is making him very relaxed, and he is beginning to feel tired.

Deaton watches, nods, “You are going to be exposed to a series of choices to test your aptitude to each of the sectors; Tutelage, Amicitia, Valiant, Probity, and Idem, until you get your result.” Stiles grips the arms rests, the nerves suddenly coming back in full force. Deaton must mistake this, reassuringly says, “I wouldn’t worry though, almost all aptitude results come back with the sector of your origin.”

Stiles just nods, his throat tightening as he starts to feel slightly nauseous and dizzy. “You’re gonna do fine.” Deaton says, walking presumably towards his computer. He quickly fades away after that, drawing deeper into the darkness.  
  


He wakes in the same room, though it’s not how he remembers it. The mounted computer and Deaton are both gone, replaced with nothing but the air. The mirror in front of him spits back an image of a confused him, but it’s opposite, not how it’s supposed to be. His head leans right, but the other him in the mirror leans the other way. He leans his head to the left, only to have the same thing happen again. _What's happening?_

Stiles looks around the room, trying to see any differences. He doesn’t feel tired anymore, but he doesn’t really know if he’s still conscious or if he’s dreaming. He gets up, taking in the rest of the room. He didn’t really notice before, but the room is a dark navy color, making it seem even darker than it is, what with the wall mirror and the buzzing electrical lights. He didn’t even know there could be rooms like this in Idem. His own home is a boring gray, but the lights are the same.

The buzzing seems to get louder as he moves around the room. He hadn’t heard it when he first walked in, but that’s not surprising. It does give him a sense of familiarity, however. It sounds like home, and it’s enough to make his erratic heartbeat slow.

He walks on the other side of the chair, facing the mirror. Stiles watches his reflection, again noticing how it seems to do the opposite. He’s not been around many mirrors, but he doesn’t think they’re supposed to act like this. He reaches his hand out to touch it, but instead of his reflection raising to meet his palm against the cool glass, the opposite hand rests against it, a good foot from Stiles’s own. That seems to make the buzzing louder, so he removes his hand, hoping to make it quiet.

It doesn’t quiet, and suddenly, Stiles is on the ground, his hands desperately covering his ears in attempt to stop them from ringing. He looks around the room, trying to see if he can stop it, but all he sees is his reflection, standing, looking down at him with a maniac look covering his features.

Stiles closes his eyes, his heartbeat racing, as he wills the buzzing to stop. It’s not working, and Stiles feels like he’s going mad. He stands then, watching as his reflection watches him, and walked towards the mirror. When he gets in range, his reflection stops, and his eyes darken as he mumbles, “Choose.”

Stiles glances around the room, seeing that their is no longer a chair in the middle of it. Confused, he asks, “Choose what?”

“Choose.” Is all he gets in response. Two tables suddenly appear in front of him, one with a set of knives and one with a long bone that looks as though it’s been ripped out of something fresh, bits of flesh and ligaments till attached. Stiles thinks it may be a femur, but he hasn’t had the proper education to know anything more.

“Choose.” His reflection says again, more demanding and angry.

Stiles stubbornly refuses, asks instead, “What if I don’t?”

His reflection’s eyes darken, “Fate.”

“What does that even mean!” He yells in frustration, irritated and scared. He just wants to wake up already, and be done with whatever this is, whatever absolute _hell_ this is.

Suddenly, his reflection turns away from him, like he’s looking at someone, until he pushes against the mirror and bangs repeatedly.

“Stop!” Stiles exclaims, jumping back.

“This isn’t real,” His reflection says, looking panicked, “This isn’t _real!_ ”

“What? Wh-what do you-“ His reflection starts angrily trying to break the mirror, throwing his fists against it as Stiles watches in horror. He watches as suddenly his reflection stops, before abruptly disappearing.

Stiles looks in the mirror, desperately trying to find any sign of his reflection, but it’s like he’s not even there. The mirror is still reflecting the room at large, but Stiles’s reflection is no longer in the reflection.

The two tables in front of him shake, and that’s when Stiles hears it. It starts as a low rumbling, before it explodes into a full out growl. Stiles looks slowly behind him, scared at what he might find, before he sees a gorgeous gray wolf. Gorgeous isn’t really the word for it, but Stiles can’t think of anything else, except at how beautiful the animal in front of him is. He’s never seen a wolf before, but somehow, he knows it’s not a common dog standing in front of him. It’s more complex, staring right in his eyes like it can see right through him. It makes Stiles want to look away, not wanting to be under the scrutiny of its ostentatious blue eyes, afraid of what the wolf will find if it looks close enough.

The wolf growls again, taking a quick step towards him, like he’s teasing Stiles. Stiles takes a step back, his hands coming up in potential defense. He spares a glance back at the tables, seeing that both the set of knives and the bone are gone. He sees now why either of them would come in handy. Shit, he’s _fucked._

He looks back to the wolf, seeing it’s crouched and rigid stance. He sticks his hand out, slowly taking a step towards him. The wolf growls threateningly, but it’s not enough to make him stop. He takes another step, slowly resting his hand on top of the wolf’s head, stroking. He remembers asking his dad once about wolves, and got a stern warning not to look them in the eyes. If looking them in the eyes is a sign of aggression, is looking away a sign of submission?

The wolf is responsive in his hand, moving from his defense position to sitting still against Stiles’s leg. His fur is soft, softer than anything Stiles has felt.

Stiles can’t help but feel pride at making the wolf calm, but that all stops immediately when he hears a high exclamation of “Doggy!”

Stiles’s head whips around to see an excited little boy, maybe only tall enough to reach Stiles’s mid-thigh, crowing happily and clapping his hands together. He hears a growl, and the little boy abruptly stops clapping, looking past Stiles at the wolf. He looks back to the animal and is shocked to see it’s salivating mouth and dark red eyes looking past him to the little boy.

It happens quickly. The wolf sitting beside him, without warning, sprints towards the little boy, attacking him to the ground. Stiles moves to shout ‘No! Stop!’ but the words don’t come out. All he sees is red, and as quickly as the wolf, Stiles lunges to stop him, expecting to land on the gray animal, or see the little boy, but only finds himself abruptly sitting straight on the metal chair.

Deaton comes quickly into his vision, and a hand is pushing him up off the table, an anchoring weight on Stiles’s back as he pants.

“What-wh-what e-even-?” Stiles tries to ask, but his heart is beating so loudly in his ears and he just can’t, can’t even begin to process what he just saw.

“I need you to calm down, okay? Get your head on straight.” Deaton says, pushing Stiles towards a wall. As he gets closer, Stiles can see a hidden door outlined in the wall, and he takes another calming breath, before he freaks out again.

“You’re going to tell your family that the serum made you sick, and that I decided it was best if you went home.”

“But - my test. What was my result?”

“You need to go through this door right now, before a supervisor comes!” Deacons insists, moving to pull Stiles again.

“No! What was my result?” Stiles stops, yanking his arm away from Deaton.

The man takes a deep breath, calmly, in his steadfast voice says, “Idem.” Stiles’s heart skips a beat, then started to beat faster. Before he can begin to fully panic at being stuck in submission for the rest of his life, Deaton adds, “And Valiant. And Tutelage.”

“ _Valiant. . ._? What - ?”

“Your results were inconclusive. When you made the wolf submit to you and when your reflection told you the simulator wasn’t real, it was a smart decision, so it sorted you into Tutelage. But then the course changed. When you lunged at the wolf to stop it from attacking the little boy, it showed bravery, so another result was Valiant. You submitted to the buzzing, something, uh, the supernatural wouldn’t do, so Idem was your final result. Normally, when a person takes the Test, it gives them one defined result. You got three.”

“That’s impossible.” Stiles says, his mouth forming a shocked o-shape.

“Not impossible, just extremely rare. They call it ‘Aberrant.' It means different, and when someone is different in this system, they can’t be controlled, and Tutelage nor Probity like that. You can’t tell anyone your result, Stiles. Not even your parents.” Deaton exclaims, and again hurriedly tries to push Stiles out of the room.

“But what am I supposed to do!” Stiles shouts back at him, tired of all of this. “We’re supposed to trust the test. It was supposed to tell me where I belong! What am I supposed to choose tomorrow at the Choosing?”

Deatons sighs, glances back at the door Stiles came in, “The test didn’t work on you. No one and no thing can tell you where to go or what sector you belong to. As far as the government is concerned, I manually entered Idem, but you can’t stay there, they’ll find you there. You need to pick somewhere where no one will suspect - “

There’s a knocking on the door Stiles came through, and Deaton springs into action, moving around Stiles’s body and opening the door, says, “Trust yourself,” before pushing him through it and closing it.

Stiles leans back against the door, taking a deep breathe at the words he heard. “Aberrant.” He whispers, shaking his head, and wonders, nor for the first time, _how could this happen to me?_

-

He decides not to take the bus home. If he gets home early, his father will notice when he checks the house log at the end of the day, and Stiles will have to explain what happened. Instead he walks. He likes walking. It’s a nice day out above all else, a paradox to the events of the day.

He walks in the middle of the road. The buses tend to hug the curb, so it’s safer there. Renovation moves slowly through the city, which is a patchwork of new, clean buildings and old, crumbling ones. Most of the new buildings are next to the marsh, which used to be a lake a long time ago. The Idem volunteer agency (which has less to do with volunteerism than with being forced) his mom works for is responsible for most of those renovations.

When Stiles looks at the Idem lifestyle as an outsider, he thinks it’s a monstrosity.  When he watches his mom and dad be shoved by visiting scepters and “Move out of the way, Squatters!” be shouted at them; when human girls are kidnapped and sold into slavery; when Stiles is given dirty looks on the streets for being a human, he remembers why he hates this life all over again. It’s only when he thinks about his family does he feel like he needs to stay.

But choosing a different sector means he forsakes his family. Permanently. Or at least, until Visiting Day arrives and he’s only allowed to see them for an hour every couple of months.

Just past the Idem sector of the city is the stretch of building skeletons and broken sidewalks that he walks through. There are places where the road has completely collapsed, revealing sewer systems and empty subways that Stiles is careful to avoid, and places that stink so powerfully of sewage and trash that he plugs his nose.

This is where the sectorless live, the Unus. Because they failed to complete initiation into whatever sector they chose, they live in poverty, doing the work no one else wants to do, or the work that the humans pass off on them. They are janitors and construction workers and garbage collectors; they make fabric and operate trains and drive buses. In return for their work they get food and clothing, but, as Stiles mother is prone to day, not enough of either.

“ _Stiles!_ ”

Stiles turns around at the sound of his name being called, seeing an excited looking Scott running up to him. The sight of his best friend is enough to calm him slightly, but his heart is still beating anxiously.

“What are you doing, walking through here?” Scott asks, the same dopey look on his face he gets when he’s excited.

“How’d you find me, Scotty?” Stiles deflects, still not wanting to think about the day or why he chose to walk through literal shit.

“C’mon Stiles. I’m a werewolf, not a psychic. I know something’s wrong. Stop deflecting and tell me already.” Scott says, giving Stiles that look he only saves for when he thinks Stiles is being an idiot.

“Nothing’s wrong, Scotty! I just felt like walking. It was pretty stuffy in those room, you know? Wanna walk home together?” Stiles asks. Deaton warned him not to tell, and for the sake of his sanity, Stiles hopes Scott won’t notice his deflection.

“Yeah,sure, and I agree. That test was kinda killer. I didn’t know what to expect, but that certainly wasn’t it. I feel like I failed. How can I fail a test I wasn’t even allowed to prepare for?” Scott asks, oblivious to the flinch Stiles emits when he hears Scott mention the test. They walk in silence for a minute, heading out of the marsh, and Idem’s bland homes come into view.

“Maybe they’re making an exception, just for you, Scotty-boy.” Stiles says, trying his best to sound convincing, sarcasm leaking through his words like he’s prone to do. His natural tendency toward sarcasm is still not appreciated. Sarcasm is always at someone’s expense. Maybe it’s better that Idem wants him to suppress it. Maybe he doesn’t have to leave his family. Maybe if he fights to make Idem work, his act will turn into reality.

Above all else, Stiles realizes, there is a whole lot of maybes.

Scott chuckles at him, rolling his eyes, “Ha ha, Stiles. But really, are you okay? I heard that you left early.”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles shrugs, “I’m fine. I just got sick from the simulator. That stuff tasted like shit, man.”

“It really did.” Scott replies as they walk through the broken streets of Idem. Scott’s house is near Stiles’s, a couple blocks away, but Scott’s not turning on his street yet, instead saying right at Stiles’s side. They walk to Stiles’s house together, in comfortable silence they’ve mastered over the years. They never run out of things to talk about, but there’s nothing really to talk about. They’re not allowed to talk about their results, and no matter how hunch Stiles wants to know what Scott’s result is, he can’t ask about it.

That doesn’t seem to stop Scott however, and as they reach the door of Stiles’s house, Scott stops in from reaching for the door handle, a half formed ‘See you later’ is broken off by his best friend’s interruption, “You gonna tell me the truth now?”

“It’s nothing, Scott. And the truth is, I’m not supposed to discuss it, and you’re not allowed to ask.” Stiles replies, pleading with eyes. Stiles has never been able to lie to Scott, and he hopes he can find the strength to do it now.

“Out of all those rules you bend, you can’t bend this one, too? Not even for something as important as this?” Scott asks, and Stiles knows it’s a lot. Scott would never ask if he thought it wasn’t important, and Stiles literally can’t tell him.

“I guess you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow, Scotty.” Stiles says, smiling at him in the hopes of getting the reaction he wants.

It works, and Scott puts his hands up in mock surrender, bites his lip, and smiles, “Alright, Stiles. I’ll see you later, buddy.”

Stiles nods at him, watches as he turns the corner. He takes a deep breath, opens the door and closes it behind him before sinking down and burying his head in his hands.

-

Dinner that night is tense. His mom knows he’s hiding something from her, and his dad can’t stop talking about how stupid the Test is, the sectors, anything about the government he can complain about. Stiles agrees with him wholeheartedly, but it’s not safe to talk about government relations, even in their own home.

It all abruptly shifts, however, when his dad brings up something they really aren’t supposed to talk about: the government.

“Gerard Argent is trying to be the governing representative in all of the sectors.” His dad says, sipping at his soup in nonchalance, like he didn’t just break governmental law.

“John!” His mother exclaims, looking around and behind her like someone is going to magically appear and arrest them all.

“What, Claudia! It’s _true!_ ” John replies.

“Is this about the report that his son released?” His mother asks, coming to sit down beside him. Stiles watches them, his spoon scraping against his bowl.

“A report?” Stiles asks.

“Gerard’s son, Chris, released a report concerning Gerard's daughter and the affiliation she has with the Hales.” His dad, says, turning to Stiles.

“We shouldn’t be talking about this, John.” Claudia says, still looking around their small hut in terror.

“What did it say?” Stiles asks, pushing his soup away.

  
“That his daughter, Kate, was raping one of the Hale boys and that’s what caused him to choose differently than Idem.” His dad says. It takes Stiles’s breath away. Until Scott was bitten, the Hales were the only other werewolves in Idem. Not all of them were from Idem, but the leader of the Uprising, Talia Hale, had a family here, and the Argents were one of their prominent allies from Tutelage. Stiles doesn’t know a lot, but he knows that Gerard had some kill Talia and her husband in a fire. He had no clue that Gerard’s daughter was part of it. It’s highly uncommon for those born in Idem to choose differently. Stiles doesn’t remember any of the Hale’s children, but he knows that they all chose different sectors than Idem, something that was thrown back in the sector’s face occasionally. Stiles also never met the Hales, so he has no idea what any of them look like.

“Kate Argent was violating the Hales? As if the Hales need to be reminded of their loss.” His mother asks, horrified.

“Or their betrayal.” His dad replies, shaking his head. “Things were so much easier back then. If the Hale children would have stayed in Idem, half of Idem wouldn’t be in poverty like they are now.”

“You can’t blame them for that, John.”

“What’s the point anyway? Tutelage has been attacking Idem and Probity for years now, and this isn’t the end. I guarantee it.” His dad responds, coldly.

“Why are they doing this?” Stiles pipes in, only to have both of his parents's eyes snap to him.

“Why don’t we just go back to eating dinner?” His mother attempts, looking to Stiles like he needs to back her up now. He looks down at his soup, and thinks about his submissive life and doesn’t know if he can handle it anymore.

"You know why,” his father says. “Because we have something they want." At the word 'want,' his eyes slip down, and Stiles sees his mother glance at her husband nervously. "Valuing knowledge above all else results in a lust for power, and that leads men into dark and empty places. We should be thankful that we know better.”

Stiles nods. He knows then, in that moment, that he will not choose Tutelage, even though his test results suggested that he could. He doesn’t think he could ever value knowledge above everything.

The conversation quickly dissolves after that, but Stiles can’t help but think about what his father said. What is it that Probity and Tutelage could possible take from Idem, even after they’ve taken so much. Stiles doesn’t know if there are others like him, but he knows this his Aberrance is something that is feared, so he thinks that might be it.

He walks into his corner, and when he lays down on the hard ground beneath him, he realizes that his decision might be simple. It will require a great act of submissiveness to choose Idem, or a great act of courage to choose Valiant, and maybe just choosing one over the other will prove that he belongs. Tomorrow, those two qualities will struggle within him, and tonight he’ll think it through.

But only one can win.

-

The Choosing starts with a long speech about identity and the sectors and how although it is believed that the Test would tell anyone what sector they belong in, it is a person’s free will to choose whatever sector they want. An Idem girl is the one nervously delivering the speech, and she keeps looking at all of the representatives of the sectors like they’re going to eat her alive. Stiles mostly tunes it all out, a conflicting battle raging in his head, but when Gerard Argent takes the stage, it’s enough to make him turn back in.

“Our dependents are now eighteen. They stand on the precipice of adulthood, and it is now up to them to decide what kind of people they will be.” Gerard’s voice is solemn and gives equal weight to each word, but Stiles can hear the maniac undertones of his words. “Decades ago our ancestors realized that it is not political ideology, religious belief, race, or nationalism that is to blame for a warring world. Rather, they determined that it was the fault of human personality—of humankind’s inclination toward evil, in whatever form that is. They divided into sectors that sought to eradicate those qualities they believed responsible for the world’s disarray.”

Stiles's eyes shift to the bowls in the center of the room. White stones for Idem, water for Tutelage, earth for Amicitia, lit wood for Valiant, and glass for Probity.

 _What do I believe?_ It sounds like a mantra in Stiles’s head, and all had think is _I don't know; I don't know; I don't know._

“Those who blamed aggression formed Amicitia.”

The Amicitia exchange smiles. They are dressed comfortably, in red or yellow. Every time Stiles sees them, they seem kind, loving, free. But joining them has never been an option for him.

“Those who blamed philistinism became the Tutelage.”

Ruling out Tutelage was the only part of Stiles’s choice that was easy.

“Those who blamed duplicity created Probity.”

Stiles has never liked Probity.

“Those who blamed dominance made Idem.”

Stiles likes to think he blames dominance; He really does.

“And those who blamed cowardice were the Valiant.”

But he is not submissive enough. Eighteen years of trying and he has had enough.

Stiles feels his legs go numb, like all the life has gone out of them, and he wonders how he will walk when his name is called.

“Working together, these five sectors have lived in peace for many years, each contributing to a different whole of society. Idem has fulfilled our need for submission in the work force; Probity has provided us with trustworthy and sound leaders in government; Tutelage has supplied us with intelligent teachers and researchers; Amicitia has given us understanding counselors and caretakers; and Valiant provides us with protection from threats both within and outside the Wall. But the reach of each sector is not limited to these areas. We give one another far more than can be adequately summarized. In our sectors, we find meaning, we find purpose, we find life.”

Stiles wants to laugh at that, that whole _Sector before Servitude_ motto he read in a stolen Sector History textbook makes him want to lash out. More than family, the sectors are where people belong. _Can that possibly be right?_

Gerard adds, “Apart from them, we would not survive.”

The silence that follows his words is heavier than other silences. It is heavy with the system's worst fear, greater even than the fear of death: to be sectorless, to belong among the Unus.

Gerard continues, “Therefore this day marks a happy occasion—the day on which we receive our new initiates, who will work with us toward a better society and a better world.”

A round of applause. It sounds muffled. Stiles is as stiff as a board, willing his body not to shake. Gerard reads the first names, but Stiles can’t tell one syllable from the other. How will he know when Gerard calls his name?

One by one, each eighteen-year-old steps out of line and walks to the middle of the room. The first girl to choose decides on Amicitia, the same sector from which she came. Stiles watches as her blood droplets fall on soil, and she stands behind their seats alone.

The room is constantly moving, a new name and a new person choosing, a new knife and a new choice. Stiles doesn’t recognize most of them, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He remembers the conversation he had with his both his mom and dad this morning, thinks back to the pinched look in their brows, scared Stiles will leave them. His mother had hugged him, holding together any resolve Stiles might have left, holds him for a long time as he breaths in her scent, because he knows what’s going to happen today, and he thinks she does too when she whispers, “I love you, no matter what,” into his ear.

His dad gives him a big hug, tells him to trust himself, and to choose whatever feels right. He’s not going to be mad, his dad tells him, with another confirmation that he thinks the test is ignorant, before they leave the house and ultimately leave Stiles at his seat in the ceremony.

He’s supposed to cut his hand over one of the five bowls on the stage, but he can’t bring himself to see the droplets over the white stones. He takes another breath as another name is rattled off.

“Allison Argent.” Rings through the room, and Stiles is momentarily shocked to see a Tutelage girl dressed in blue walk across the stage. She must be Gerard’s granddaughter, judging by the way he gives her a fond smile and a little nod. She nods slightly back, moving her dark brunette hair out of her face as she accepts the knife from him. She cuts her palm, and Stiles watches as she begins to place her hand over the Tutelage bowl. Gerard looks at her again, obviously proud of her decision. But before anyone can blink, she moves her hand over the Valiant bowl and lets the droplets settle on the burning wood. A gasp collects over the Tutelage section. It’s the first sector change.

Gerard looks furious, but he quickly composes himself, handing her a cloth to cover up the blood, before proceeding to call another name. Stiles watches as she walks off the stage and is immediately welcomed by the Valiant in their section.

Tutelage will see her as a traitor from now on. Her Tutelage family will have the option of visiting her in her new sector, a couple months from now on Visiting Day, but they won’t, because she left them. Her absence will haunt their hallways, and she will be a space they can’t fill. And then time will pass, and the hole will be gone, like when an organ is removed and the body’s fluids flow into the space it leaves. Anyone, including humans and supernaturals alike, can’t tolerate emptiness for long.

More and more names are called, more and more initiates transfer into other sectors, and when the names are being called in Stiles’s row, his heart skips a beat at every new name. Scott picked Valiant, something Stiles knew, deep down, that he would always choose. But he can’t help feeling a little hurt by his decision, that he didn’t want to stay in Idem.

The person to his left is called, Susan Stewart, and he suddenly goes rigid. He still doesn’t know what to do. Deaton’s advice to go somewhere where people won’t notice his aberrance is ringing in his ears. But he has to stay, for his parents, for him. But he doesn’t know what to pick anymore, doesn’t know where he belongs. He will not end up sectorless, but he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to do!

“Stiles Stilinski.” He hears, and all kinds of different eyes turn to him. He stands, walks to the stage, but it’s all a trance. He can’t help but feel self-conscious on the stage, in front of everyone in his worn-out, ugly grey cloths that resemble normal clothes.

Gerard offers him a knife. He looks into his eyes—they’re a dark color, a strange color Stiles can’t even place—and takes it. He nods, and he turns towards the bowls. Valiant fire and Idem stones are both on his left, one in front of his shoulder and one behind. Stiles hold the knife in his right hand and touch the blade to his palm. Gritting his teeth, he drags the blade down. It stings, but he barely notices. He holds both hands in front of his chest, and the next breath he breathes shudders on the way out.

He opens his eyes and thrusts his arm out. His blood drips onto the hardwood of the stage between the two bowls. Then, with a gasp he can’t contain, he shifts his hand forward, and his blood sizzles in the fire.

He is superior. He is brave. He is Aberrant.

-

Stiles pointedly does not look at his parents. He’s afraid of what he’ll find when if he looks at them. He keeps his eyes trained on the Valiant initiates in front of him, hearing some names he recognizes and some he doesn’t.

His acceptance was nice enough. He got a few slaps on the back and a lot of stares, but he’s used to that. He just chose to be apart of a sector that’s mostly made up of werewolves, not to mention countless of other supernatural creatures. He doubts there are more than twenty humans in the entire Valiant compound.

His heart is still beating wildly, but he keeps going on as if he’s fine. Scott had come over to him to ask if he was okay, hearing his erratic heartbeat, a smile on his crooked jaw. Stiles had just smiled back at him, slinging an arm around his neck. Scott had been really glad to see that they were going to be once again in the same sector, and hasn’t stopped going on about the Tutelage girl who just so happened to be Gerard Argent’s granddaughter.

And to make matters worse, Stiles is pretty sure that she can hear them. He doesn’t really know if she is a human or not, but by the looks of her ethereal beauty, he’s guess that’s she’s more on the supernatural side. It’s a well known fact that supernatural creatures are also supernaturally gorgeous, so Stiles isn’t surprised to find that she fits into that category.

The last name is called, a Probity boy who stays in Probity, and just like that, the Choosing is over. Stiles has to look back at his parents now, reality of his choice sinking in. He sees him mom first, her delicate features and eyes as dark as his own looking back at him. She’s smiling brightly, and Stiles can’t help but to smile back. His mom constantly worries, but she’s carefree and loving and strong and he’s really going to miss her. Sometimes, he has to remind himself that she’s not Amicitia, given her peaceful and gentle nature.

His dad is looking at him with pride, like he’s never fully seen Stiles before and is just now taking it all in. He gives him a stern nod, and Stiles is again reminded of his dad’s strength. If his dad wasn’t a human, Stiles knows he would be Valiant, and in some way, a knot low is Stiles’s stomach undos. His dad’s strength and his mother’s nature is going to get him through this. He’s going to be okay, now that he knows his parents aren’t going to turn him away. He’ll have someone to visit on Visiting Day, and that fact alone makes his heart clench.

Suddenly, everyone starts running. Stiles can hear whoops and shouts and laughter all around him, and dozens of thundering feet moving at different rhythms. It’s a carefree nature that Stiles has never really been allowed to experience, and now that he is, he realizes how wild the Valiant really are.

“What the hell is going on?” a Probity boy next to him shouts.

Stiles just shake his head and runs. He's breathless when they reach outside the building, and the rest of the Valiant burst through the exit. Outside, the air is crisp and cold and the sky is orange from the setting sun. It reflects off the white glass of the build the Choosing was held in.

The Valiant sprawl across the street, blocking the path of a bus, and Stiles has to sprint to catch up to the back of the crowd. His confusion dissipates as he runs, Scott right at his side. Stiles has not run anywhere in a long time. Idem discourages anything done strictly for someone's own enjoyment, and that is exactly what this is, with his lungs burning, his muscles aching, the fierce pleasure of a flat-out sprint. Stiles follows the Valiant down the street and around the corner and hears a familiar sound: the train horn.

“Oh no,” mumbles the Probity boy. “Are we supposed to hop on that thing?”

“Yes,” He hears Scott say, breathless.

It is good that he and Scott spent so much time watching the Valiant arrive at different places. The crowd spreads out in a long line. The train glides toward them on steel rails, its light flashing, its horn blaring. The door of each car is open, waiting for the Valiant to pile in, and they do, group by group, until only the new initiates are left. The Valiant-born initiates are used to doing this by now, so in a second it’s just sector transfers left.

Both Stiles and Scott step forward with a few others and start jogging. They run with the car for a few steps and then throw themselves sideways. Stiles isn’t as as tall or as strong as some of them, so he has difficulty pulling himself into the car. He clings to a handle next to the doorway, his shoulder slamming into the car. His arms shake, and finally Scott grabs him and pulls him in. Gasping, he thanks him.

“You alright, buddy?” Scott asks him, helping him stand.

Stiles pats him on the chest, “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Do you know where we’re going?” Scott asks again, shouting over the wind that is blowing harder over through the open train doors. Stiles sits down. It’ll be easier to keep good balance is he’s sitting down with the amount of wind spilling through the doors. Scott raises his eyebrows.

“We won’t fall out if we’re sitting.” Stiles shrugs, watching as Scott takes a seat next to him.

Stiles takes a look around, sees a lot of people in black and others mixed among them, bursts of white, blue, and even yellow. Stiles is the only grey.

“I guess we’re going to Valiant. I don’t really know where that is, though.”

Scott nods, “No one really knows where that is.”

The wind rushes through the car, and Stiles can see a hint of blue over the fading sun. He’s never been to that part of Beacon Hills, doesn’t know what’s out there, but he sees the blue stretch on and on, and knows he wants to go there soon.

Stiles closes his eyes and leans back against the train car, listening to the high whistle of the wind, wondering how his new life will be.

He must of been lost in thought for a while, only opens his eyes when he hears Scott yell over the wind, “They’re jumping off.”

He lifts his head, noticing how his neck aches. He’s been curled up for at least a half hour, hearing the city smear past. He sits forward. The train has slowed down in the past few minutes, and he sees that what Scott has shouted is right: The Valiant in the cars ahead of us are jumping out as the train passes a rooftop. The tracks are seven stories up.

The idea of leaping out of a moving train onto a rooftop, knowing there is a gap between the edge of the roof and the edge of the track, suddenly makes Sties dizzy. He pushes himself up and stumbles to the opposite side of the car, where the other sector transfers stand in a line.

“We have to jump off too, then,” a Tutelage girl says. She has long red hair and perfectly groomed eyebrows.

“Great,” a Probity boy replies, “because that makes perfect sense, Lydia. Leap off a train onto a roof.”

“This is kind of what we signed up for, Jackson,” the girl points out.

“Well, I’m not doing it,” says an Amicitia boy behind Stiles. He has light skin and wears a brown shirt—he is the only transfer from Amicitia. His eyes shine with defiance.

“You’ve got to,” Scott says, “or you fail. Come on, it’ll be alright.”

“No, it won’t! I’d rather be sectorless than dead!” Another Probity boy shakes his head. He sounds panicky. He keeps shaking his head and staring at the rooftop, which is getting closer by the second.

Stiles don’t agree with him. He would rather be dead than empty, like the Unus.

“You can’t force him,” Stiles says, glancing at Scott. His eyes are wide, and he bites his lip. He shoots his hand out at Stiles.

“Here,” He says. “We’ll jump together.” Stiles quickly obliges, trusting Scott.

He takes his hand and they stand at the edge of the car. As it passes the roof, Stiles counts, “One. . .two. . .three! ”

On three, they launch off the train car. A weightless moment, and then Stiles's feet slam into solid ground and pain prickles through his shins. The jarring landing sends both he and Scott sprawling on the rooftop, gravel under their cheeks. Stiles lets go of Scott’s hand. He notices that he’s laughing.

“That was fun,” Scott says, “Let’s do it again."

Not for the first time, Stiles thinks that Scott will fit in with Valiant thrill seekers. He brushes grains of rock from his cheek. All the initiates except the Probity boy made it onto the roof, with varying levels of success. The Tutelage girl with the red hair, Lydia, stand brushing rock off her shoulders, wincing, and Jackson, the Probity boy with shiny hair, grins proudly—he must have landed on his feet.

Stiles moves to reposition his clothing, some of it riding up, before he feels his elbow sting. He pulls his sleeve up to examine it. Some of the skin is peeling off, but it isn’t bleeding.

“Ooh. Scandalous! A Squatter's flashing some skin!”

Stiles lifts his head. “Squatter” is slang for Idem, for humans, and Stiles is the only one there. Stiles doubts that anyone will call Scott a Squattor, because he's a werewolf, even though they're from the same sector. A tutelage girl points at him, smirking. Some people laugh. Stiles feels his cheeks heat up, and he lets his sleeve fall.

“Leave him alone, Kali. I heard you on the train saying you wish you wouldn’t of chose Valiant in the first place. What, too scary for you?” Scott says, coming to Stiles’s rescue like he always does. Stiles shoots him a grateful look, patting him on the shoulder.

Before the girl, Kali, can reply, someone cuts her off, “Listen up! My name is Ennis! I am one of the leaders of your new sector!” shouts a man at the other end of the roof. He is older than the others, with deep creases in his dark skin and hair at his temples, and he stands on the ledge like it’s a sidewalk. Like someone couldn’t just fall to their death from it. “Several stories below us is the members’ entrance to our compound. If you can’t muster the will to jump off, you don’t belong here. Our initiates have the privilege of going first.”

“You want us to jump off a building?” asks a Tutelage girl. She is a few inches taller than anyone else, with light brown hair and thin lips. Her mouth hangs open.

Stiles isn’t really sure why this shocks her. Valiants are called crazy for a reason.

“Yes,” Ennis says. He looks amused.

“Is there water at the bottom or something?”

“Who knows?” He raises his eyebrows.

The crowd in front of the initiates splits in half, making a wide path for them. Stiles looks around. No one looks eager to leap off the building—their eyes are everywhere but on Ennis. Some of them nurse minor wounds or brush gravel from their clothes. He glances at Kali. She is picking at one of her cuticles. Trying to act casual.

“Any volunteers?” Ennis asks, scanning the crowd. He notices his eyes lingering on Kali. She’s barefoot, and she gives Ennis a predatory grin, but her eyes are full of longing.

Stiles shakes his head. He is proud. It will get him into trouble someday, along with his sarcasm, but today it makes him brave. He walks toward the ledge and hears snickers behind him.

“Stiles, what are you doing!” Scott whispers, making like he’s going to grab him and pull him back. Stiles just continues walking.

Ennis steps aside, leaving the way clear. He walk up to the edge and look down. Wind whips through his clothes, making the fabric snap. The building they’re all on forms one side of a square with three other buildings. In the center of the square is a huge hole in the concrete. Stiles can’t see what’s at the bottom of it. Doesn’t know if he really wants to.

This is a scare tactic. Stiles knows he will land safely at the bottom. That knowledge is the only thing that he can think of that would sort him into Tutelage, before he steps onto the ledge. He tries not to shake. He can’t back down now. Not with all the people watching him. His hands fumble along the collar of his shirt and find the button that secures it shut. After a few tries, he undos the hooks from collar to hem, and pulls it off his shoulders.

He hears a couple of people whistle, and someone says, “Yeah, take it off!"

Beneath it, he wears a gray T-shirt. It is tighter than any other clothes he owns, and no one has ever seen him in it before. He balls up the outer shirt and looks over his shoulder, at Scott, and then at Kali. He throws the ball of fabric at Kali as hard as he can, his jaw clenched. It hits her in the chest. She stares at Stiles. Stiles can still hear catcalls and shouts behind him.

He looks at the hole again. Goose bumps rise on his pale arms, and his stomach lurches. He suddenly feels dizzy again. He doesn't have a fear of heights, but right now, he's too nervous. But If he doesn’t do it now, he won’t be able to do it at all.

He tries not to think. Just bends his knees and jumps.

The air howls in his ears as the ground surges toward him, growing and expanding, as he rapidly surges toward the ground, his heart pounding so fast in his ears, every muscle in his body tensing as the falling sensation drags at his stomach. The hole surrounds him and he drop into darkness.

He feels his body hit something hard. It gives way beneath him and cradles his body. The impact knocks the wind out of him and he wheezes, struggling to breathe again. Stiles’s arms and legs sting at the impact.

A net. There is a net at the bottom of the hole. He looks up at the building and laughs, half relieved and half hysterical. His body shakes and he covers his face with his hands. He can’t even begin to sort the emotions he feels right now.

Stiles knows he has to stand on solid ground again. He can’t seem to want to move, but suddenly, the net gives way underneath him, and his body rolls towards the edge of it, only forcibly stopping himself when he sees the most gorgeous pair of eyes he’s ever seen in his life. Hands wrap around his waist, and he rolls off, plummeting face first to the cement floor before the hands around him tighten and bring him upright. Stiles looks up to see him, takes him in his dark appearance.

“He” is the young man attached to the hands around Stiles’s waist. He has stubble covering his carved out of stone jaw, a full upper lip and lower lip. His eyes are so deep-set that his eyelashes touch the skin under his caterpillar eyebrows, and they are a dark hazel, a dreaming, sleeping, waiting color.

His hands grip Stiles’s waist, but he releases him a moment after Stiles stands fully upright again. “Thank you,” Stiles says, blushing. They stand on a platform ten feet above the ground, the surrounding area around them is an open cavern full of excited looking people in black.

“Can’t believe it,” a voice says from behind him. It belongs to a dark skinned man, his lips in a straight line. He smirks at Stiles. “A Squatter, the first to jump? Unheard of.”

“There’s a reason why he left them, Boyd,” the man says. His voice is deep, and it rumbles. “What’s your name?”

“Um. . .” He trails off, still mesmerized by this man’s beauty. He’s never been around someone so attractive before, save for a couple that has grabbed Stiles’s attention, but none of them have caught Stiles’s eye like this one.

“Is this a hard question for you?” The man asks, a faint scowl curling around his lips as he steps back a little.

“No - uh - Stiles. My name is Stiles.” He says, biting his lip nervously.

The man watches as he does so, nods, “Never heard of a Stiles before.”

“There’s no one really like me.” Stiles says before he can stop himself, but he’s made the right decision, judging by the smile he gets in return.

“No there’s not. Never had a human transfer before. This is new.” He says, giving Stiles a once-over. Stiles feels like he should shield his body, but he resists the urge to do so.

“Stiles, huh? Well, make the announcement, Hale.” Boyd says.

The man - Hale - looks behind his shoulder and shouts, “First jumper - Stiles!”

A crowd materializes from the darkness as his eyes adjust. They cheer and pump their fists, and then another person drops into the net. His screams follow him down. Scott. Everyone laughs, but they follow their laughter with more cheering.

Hale sets his hand on Stiles's back and, whispering in his ear, says, “Welcome to Valiant.”

 

When all the initiates stand on solid ground again, Boyd and Hale lead them down a narrow tunnel. The walls are made of stone, and the ceiling slopes. Stiles feels like he is descending deep into the heart of the earth. The tunnel is lit at long intervals, and Scott shuffles closer to make sure Stiles doesn’t get lost in the dark spaces between.

The Amicitia boy in front of him stops abruptly, and Stiles smacks into him, hitting his nose nose on his shoulder. He stumbles back and rubs his nose as he recovers. The whole crowd has stopped, and the three leaders stand in front of them, arms folded.

“This is where we divide,” Boyd says. “The Valiant-born initiates are with me. I don’t think you'll need a tour of the place.”

He smiles and beckons toward the Valiant-born initiates. They break away from the group and dissolve into the shadows. Stiles watches the last heel pass out of the light and looks at those who are left. Most of the initiates were from Valiant, so only fifteen or so people remain. Of those, Stiles and Scott are the only Idem transfers, and there is only one Amicitia transfer. The rest are from Tutelage and, surprisingly, Probity. It must require bravery to be honest all the time. Stiles supposes he wouldn’t know.

Hale addresses them next. “Most of the time I work in Military Intelligence, but as of now, I'm your instructor,” he says. “My name is Hale.”

Scott speaks up, “Are you Valiant born? Or from somewhere else?”

“No,” Hale says, his jaw clenched. “Is there a problem?”

“No.” Scott responds, shaking his head.

“Good. We’re about to go into the Hole, which you will someday learn to love. It—”

Scott scoffs, “The Hole? Clever name.”

Hale walks up to Scott and leans his face in close to Scott's. His eyes narrow, and for a second he just stares at him.

“What’s your name?” he asks quietly.

“Scott.” He replies, not backing down. He even goes as far as to flash his werewolf eyes, a bright golden casting a shadow across Hale’s face.

“Well, Scott, if I wanted to put up with idiotic smart-mouths, I would have joined a different sector,” he hisses. He flashes his eyes back, but they’re a dark blood red to contrast Scott’s gold. Stiles has never seen a werewolf with red eyes. “The first lesson you will learn from me is to keep your mouth shut. Got that?”

Scott nods. It’s not like Scott to show submission so easily, but Stiles guesses that’s what coming from Idem does to a person.

Hale starts toward the shadow at the end of the tunnel. The crowd of initiates move on in silence, no one knowing what to do or say except to follow Hale.

“What a jerk,” Scott mumbles.

“I guess he doesn’t like to be laughed at,” Stiles replies. “C’mon, Scotty. Don’t let that bring you down.”

Scott just shakes his head, a fond smile on his lips, as they jog to catch back up with the group. It would probably be wise to be careful around Hale, Stiles realizes. He seemed placid to Stiles on the platform, but something about that stillness makes him wary now.

Hale pushes a set of double doors open, and the initiates walk into the place he called “the Hole.”

“Oh,” whispers Scott. “I get it.”

“Hole” is the best word for it. It is an underground cavern so huge Stiles can’t see the other end of it from where he stands, at the bottom. Uneven rock walls rise several stories above their heads. Built into the stone walls are places for food, clothing, supplies, leisure activities. Narrow paths and steps carved from rock connect them. There are no barriers to keep people from falling over the side. Stiles supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, but he wonders again what exactly he has gotten himself into.

A slant of orange light stretches across one of the rock walls. Forming the roof of the Hole are panes of glass and, above them, a building that lets in sunlight. It must have looked like just another city building when they passed it on the train.

Black lanterns dangle at random intervals above the stone paths, similar to the ones that lit the Choosing room. They grow brighter as the sunlight dies.

People are everywhere, all dressed in black, all shouting and talking, expressive, gesturing. Stiles doesn’t see any elderly people in the crowd. Are there any old Valiant? Do they not last that long, or are they just sent away when they can’t jump off moving trains anymore? Stiles doesn’t really want to find out.

A group of children run down a narrow path with no railing, so fast his heart pounds, and he wants to scream at them to slow down before they get hurt. A memory of the orderly humans in Idem streets appears in his mind: a line of people on the right passing a line of people on the left, in something that resembles order. But there is something wonderful about Valiant chaos.

“If you follow me,” says Hale, “I’ll show you the chasm.”

He waves them forward. Hale’s appearance seems tame from the front, by Valiant standards, but when he turns around, Stiles can see a tattoo peeking out from the collar of his T-shirt. The head of swirl, or maybe a round shape. He leads us to the right side of the Hole, which is conspicuously dark. Stiles squints and see that the floor he stands on now ends at an iron barrier. As they all approach the railing, he hears a roar—water, fast-moving water, crashing against rocks.

He looks over the side. The floor drops off at a sharp angle, and several stories below them is a river. Gushing water strikes the wall beneath him and sprays upward. To his left, the water is calmer, but to his right, it is white, battling with rock. He has to take a step back. Another one of his fears is drowning, and he’s not about to drown today.

“The chasm reminds us that there is a fine line between bravery and idiocy!” Hale shouts over the roar of the water. “A daredevil jump off this ledge will end your life. It has happened before and it will happen again. You’ve been warned.”

“This is incredible,” says Scott, as he and all the other initiates move towards the railing.

“Incredible isn't the word,” Stiles says, shaking his head.

Hale notices him, behind the group. They make eye contact, and Hale just stares at him, like he’s a puzzle that Hale just can’t quite solve. If he’s honest, Stiles hasn’t been able to solve himself either.

 

Hale leads the group of initiates across the Hole toward a gaping hole in the wall. They all enter and walk down the long corridor, following Hale as he turns and walks down a platform into a huge room filled with beds. Stiles has never seen beds like these before, held up by metal bars. The bed at his home in Idem would be jealous of this.

Hale gestures to the room, “This is where you’ll be sleeping for the next ten weeks.”

“Girls or boys?” Jackson asks, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Both.” Hale replies, watching as some shoulders slump. Jackson doesn’t seem affected, however, just looks to Lydia and waggles his eyebrows.

“There are showers over there, and each of you will be given fresh clothes everyday.” Hale continues, motioning to the showers mounted into the ceiling above. There are no curtains or walls to block the showers, which means that they’ll all be getting comfortable with each other.

“Are you serious? There’s no other place else?” Jackson asks, a look of disgust on his face as he moves towards the showers.

“You should feel right at home, Probity. Everything’s out in the open.” Hale says, smirking at him. Jackson just looks down.

“Is this is a joke?” Someone asks, and Stiles really thinks everyone needs to stop patronizing their instructor.

“No.” Is all he says back however. “Get changed.”

“Anyone up for a shower?” A Tutelage boy laughs, chasing after two girls. Stiles rolls his eyes, following Scott to two of the beds perched right up against the walls. Stiles stops in front of one of the beds, his hand gracing the metal. Being without a bed for almost all of his lifetime has made him want to cherish this new thing that’s been given to him.

He runs his hand over the blankets, feels the surface of the blankets and the cool plastic on top of them. He can’t believe that this is actually his.

“Never seen a bed before, initiate?” A voice suddenly breaks him out of his trance, and he turns to look up at it, only to find it’s Hale, leaning against the wall with practiced ease.

“Never been allowed one.” He replies back, and the look on Hale's face shocks him. It’s like he can’t believe that someone couldn’t have something a simple as a bed, but here he stands, looking at Stiles again like he just can’t figure him out.

Hale looks down at the cement floor, nods, and walks away. Scott looks at him then, says, “This is the weirdest place I think I’ve ever been, and I was once trapped underneath the sewers, Stiles.”

Stiles chuckles at that, shaking his head as he grabs the clothes the Valiant have provided for them. They’re black, obviously, but the inside is a dark orange. He pulls off his bottoms next, if one could really even call them bottoms judging by the barely there thread and the sporadic holes in them. The Valiant pants are a black strong material, nothing like what Stiles has felt before, but he puts those on as well.

He strips himself of his gray t-shirt next, his back to the other initiates as he changes. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but every person around him is very muscular or big, and Stiles is none of those things. He’s got a little muscle, but he’s lithe and pale, a big contrast between all the others and him. Scott’s even got a tan going on, so Stiles is many shades lighter than him.

Someone to his right whispers, “Look at how skinny the human is!” but not quite low enough for Stiles not to hear. He looks over to the voice, sees a Probity girl whispering to another girl. They laugh when he notices them, and he quickly turns back around.

“Hey, don’t worry about them, man.” Scott says reassuringly, stripping off his own shirt. Stiles notices his stone hard abs, and scoffs, pulling the dark tee over his head.

The Amicitia boy comes over then, plants himself on the bed next to Stiles. Stiles shares a look at Scott, before turning to him. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He replies, starting to take off his boots.

“I’m Stiles, this is Scott.” He says, getting a nod.

“I’m Isaac.” He says, stripping off his shirt next, and Stiles notices his body too, if only a bit paler than Scott’s. Is everyone in here model ready?

“Nice too meet you, Amicita.” Stiles smiles at him, grabbing his new jacket off the bed.

“You too, Idem.” Isaac replies, giving him a small smile.

When everyone is changed, Hale leads everyone back to where they came, stopping before he reaches the Hole and turns into another dark hole in the wall. Stiles walks with Scott and Isaac, watching the different shadows is the dark. The room beyond is well-lit enough that Stiles can see where they're going: a dining hall full of people and clattering silverware. When they walk in, the Valiant inside stand. They applaud. They stamp their feet. They shout. The noise surrounds Stiles and fills him. Scott smiles, and a second later, so does Stiles.

Scott and Stiles look for empty seats. Stiles discovers a mostly empty table at the side of the room, and after pulling Scott and Isaac towards it, finds himself sitting between Scott and Hale. In the center of the table is a platter of food he doesn’t recognize: circular pieces of meat wedged between round bread slices. Stiles pinches one between his fingers, unsure what to make of it.

Hale nudges him with his elbow.

“It’s beef,” he says. “Put this on it.” He passes him a small bowl full of red sauce.

“You’ve never had a hamburger before?” asks Isaac, his eyes wide.

“No,” Stiles says. “Is that what it’s called?”

“Squatters eat plain food,” Hale says, nodding at Isaac.

“Why?” He asks.

Both Stiles and Scott shrug. “We’re pretty much looked over. We don’t get the good stuff.”

Isaac smirks. “No wonder you left.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, rolling his eyes. “It was just because of the food.”

The corner of Hale’s mouth twitches.

The doors to the cafeteria open, and a hush falls over the room. Stiles looks over his shoulder. A man walks in, and it is quiet enough that he can hear his footsteps. His face is scarred in so many places Stiles loses count, and his hair is longer, dark. But that isn’t what makes him look menacing. He’s walking with a walking stick, and it’s only then that Stiles realizes he’s blind. He’s wearing sunglasses that cover his eyes, but that doesn’t his eyes as they sweep across the room.

“Who’s that?” hisses Scott.

“His name is Deucalion,” says Hale. “He’s a Valiant leader.”

“Seriously? But he’s so. . .old.”

Hale gives him a grave look. “Age doesn’t matter here.”

Stiles can tell Scott’s about to ask what he wants to ask: Then what does matter? But Deucalion's eyes stop scanning the room, and he starts toward a table. He starts toward their table and drops into the seat next to Hale. He offers no greeting, so neither do they.

“Well, aren’t you going to introduce me?” he asks, nodding to Stiles and Scott.

Hale says, “This is Stiles and Scott.”

“Ooh, two Squatters,” says Deucalion, smirking at them, then takes a deep inhale, “And a human, too." His smile pulls at the scars in his lips, making them occupy wider, and Stiles winces. “We’ll see how long you last.”

Stiles doesn’t mean to say anything—as to draw more attention to himself, but, dammit he’s a rule breaker for a reason—so he says, “I see what you’re saying, really I do, and I’d agree with you, but then we’d both be wrong.” He doesn’t understand why, but Deucalion gets under his skin.

He feels Scott slap his shoulder, mutter a warning, “Stiles!” and sees Hale’s face pull in amusement.

But Deucalion just taps his fingers against the table. His knuckles are scabbed over, right where they would split if he punched something too hard. “Ooh, feisty."

He turns to Hale then, apparently done with having his fun, “What have you been doing lately, Hale?”

Hale lifts a shoulder. “Nothing, really,” he says.

Are they friends? Stiles's eyes flick between Deucalion and Hale. Everything Deucalion did—sitting here, asking about Hale—suggests that they are, but the way Hale sits, tense as pulled wire, suggests they are something else. Rivals, maybe, but how could that be, if Deucalion is a leader and Hale is not?

“Ennis tells me he keeps trying to meet with you, and you don’t show up,” Deucalion says. “He requested that I find out what’s going on with you.”

Hale looks at Deucalion for a few seconds before saying, “Tell him that I am satisfied with the position I currently hold.”

“So you don't want me to offer you the job.”

The rings on Deucalion’s hand catch the light. Maybe Deucalion perceives Hale as a potential threat to his position. Stiles's father says that those who want power and get it live in terror of losing it. That’s why they have to give power to those who do not want it. Or simply just stay out of it, his mom likes to remind them.

“So it would seem,” Hale says.

“And you aren’t interested.”

“I haven’t been interested for three years.”

“Well,” says Deucalion. “Let’s hope Ennis gets the point, then.”

He claps Hale on the shoulder, a little too hard, and gets up. When he walks away, Stiles slouches immediately. He hadn't realized he was so tense.

“Are you two...friends?” Stiles says, unable to contain his curiosity, like the little shit he is.

“I know him from the military,” he says. “He transferred from Tutelage.”

All thoughts of being careful around Hale leave him then. “Have you always been in the military then?”

“I thought I would only have trouble with the supernatural idiots asking too many questions,” he says coldly. “Now I’ve got humans, too?”

“It must be because you’re so approachable,” Stiles says flatly. He’s not just going to back down. “You know. Like a bed of nails.”

Hale stares at him, and he doesn’t look away. Hale isn’t a wolf, but the same rules apply. Looking away is submissive. Looking him in the eye is a challenge. It’s Stiles’s choice and he’s not in Idem anymore.

Heat rushes into Stiles’s cheeks regardless. What will happen when the tension breaks?

But he just says, “Careful, Stiles.”

His stomach drops like he just swallowed a stone. A Valiant member at another table calls out Hale’s name, and Stiles turns to Scott and Isaac, who is sitting opposite them. Scott raises both eyebrows.

“What?” Stiles asks.

“I’m developing a theory.”

“Oh? And it is?”

He picks up his hamburger, grins, and says, “That you have a death wish.”

Isaac and Stiles both laugh at that, and eat in comfortable silence until dinner is over.

After dinner, Hale disappears without a word. Deucalion leads them back down a series of hallways without telling them where they’re going. Stiles doesn’t know why a Valiant leader would be responsible for a group of initiates, but he thinks maybe it is just for tonight.

At the end of each hallway is a black lamp, but between them it’s dark, and he has to be careful not to stumble over uneven ground. Scott walks beside him in silence. No one told them to be quiet, but none of them speak. Scott keeps glancing over occasionally, making sure Stiles isn’t lost or losing his balance like he’s known for.

Deucalion stops in front of a metal door and folds his arms. The initiates gather around him.

“For those of you who don’t know, my name is Deucalion,” he says. “I am one of the four leaders of the Valiant. We take the initiation process very seriously here, so I volunteered to oversee most of your training.”

The thought makes Stiles nauseous. The idea that a Valiant leader will oversee their initiation is bad enough, but the fact that it’s Deucalion makes it seem even worse.

“Some ground rules,” he says. “You have to be in the training room by eight o’clock every day. Training takes place every day from eight to six, with a break for lunch. You are free to do whatever you like after six. You will also get some time off between each stage of initiation.”

The phrase “do whatever you like” sticks in Stiles's mind. At home, he could never do what he wanted, not even for an evening. He was never allowed to. He doesn't even know what he likes to do.

“You are only permitted to leave the compound when accompanied by a Valiant,” Deucalion adds. “Behind this door is the room where you will be sleeping for the next few weeks, but you already knew that. You will notice that there are twenty beds and only fifteen of you. In total, there are forty-five initiates. We anticipated that a higher proportion of you would make it this far.”

“But we started with sixteen,” protests Scott. Stiles sighs and closes his eyes to wait for the reprimand. It’s a common theme he’s beginning to learn, stay quiet unless spoken to.

“There is always at least one transfer who doesn’t make it to the compound,” says Deucalion, his hand fidgeting with his cane. He shrugs. “Anyway, in the first stage of initiation, we keep transfers and Valiant-born initiates separate, but that doesn’t mean you are evaluated separately. At the end of initiation, your rankings will be determined in comparison with the Valiant-born initiates. And they are better than you are already. So I expect—”

“Rankings?” asks the mousy-haired Tutelage girl to his right. He thinks her name is Malia. He’s beginning to learn a lot about the different sectors just by being here. “Why are we ranked?”

Deucalion smiles, and in the black light, his smile looks wicked, like it was cut into his face with a knife.

“Your ranking serves two purposes,” he says. “The first is that it determines the order in which you will select a job after initiation. Leadership, guarding the fence, or keeping the sectorless from killing each other. There are only a few desirable positions available.”

Stiles feels his stomach tighten.

“The second purpose,” he says, “is that only the top twenty initiates are made members.”

Pain stabs his stomach. They all stand still as statues. And then Scott says, “What?”

“What do you think would happen? You’re let in on principle. We train warriors here, not just anybody who can throw a punch. You are tested on your abilities, supernatural or not,” Deucalion smirks, and Stiles knows that Deucalion is blind, but he can’t help but feel like he is staring right at him, “and if you don’t make it, you live sectorless.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell us this?” Isaac asks, his arms crossing in front of him. Amongst the chaos, Stiles can tell he’s really going to like Isaac.

“Would it have changed your minds?”

“Yes!” Half the crowd says, all of them furious.

“Then you might as well pack up now. If you’re too coward to handle a little bit of competition, you don’t deserve to be in Valiant away,” Deucalion says, a large smirk on his face.

It’s then that Stiles realizes all of the supernatural creatures in the room. He doesn’t know what Deucalion is, but he’s definitely something big and bad, and judging by the way most of the initiates eyes change color into a more supernatural glow, Stiles knows they are too.

And, with him being the only human transfer, his odds at surviving in Valiant are decidedly not good.

“Cheer up, kids,” Deucalion says, and Stiles knows that even though Deucalion isn’t even standing in his direction, he’s addressing him when he says, “You chose us, now we get to choose you.”

-

Stiles wakes with a start. There’s an insistent banging coming from his left, towards where the door is to their room. It keeps getting louder and even more insistent, so Stiles hauls himself up and looks around the room and at the door, where Hale stands banging a gun against the metal rail of the steps.

People groan around him, and Stiles can hear Scott and Isaac shuffling to get up and put on the new clothes at the end of their beds.

Stiles hadn’t realized how tired he was, how tired he has been. He slept better than he has in years, since he was little even, and didn’t know that this is what dominance feels like.

Hale stops his banging when he sees everyone is dressed and shouts, “Everyone by the chasm in ten minutes!” as Stiles puts on his t-shirt, leaving as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

“I think this sector may be the death of me.” Isaac says, stretching his arms above his head.

Scott yawns, rubs his eyes tiredly and replies, “Who knew, right?”

Stiles nods at that, sitting down on his bed to pull on his black boots. They’re a little too big for him, but he isn’t going to let that stop him. He should have expected for there training to begin as soon as they got their, but he guesses he was the only one who would have thought that, judging by the other initiates’s groans and complaints.

All of the girls look like they hadn’t just sprung out of bed, their hair done up in different braids. Stiles notices the Argent girl for the first time since she chose, and thinks that she really fits in here. Her hair is long, so her french braid runs down the planes or her back, some hair piled around her oval face. She’s wearing the standard Valiant uniform, but it seems to fit her better than it does anyone else. Stiles thinks that if he had just seen her here, he would think she was a Valiant-born initiate.

She finishes lacing up her boots, and jogs to catch up to Lydia, who also has her hair in a french braid, and Jackson, who looks homicidal in his back clothing, and Stiles thinks _oh, that makes sense._ He’s no one to judge, but he supposes that sectors stay together, even after they’ve picked another one.

They all rush out of the room, the metal door slamming behind them after the last Probity girl is dressed, and shuffle through the hallways towards the chasm. Stiles takes a moment to admire the compound in the daylight. It’s even prettier now in the daylight than it was with the black lanterns illuminating it. Stiles can see people already climbing the rock walls, members below them shouting out encourages. It unleashes something in his chest, and Stiles hadn’t realized he was so excited to be here.

When they meet Hale at the chasm, he immediately begins walking down another hallway and up some stairs, so the others follow him there. Some initiates keep throwing questions at him, but Hale must not be a morning person, because he literally growls in their faces after the tenth question is asked, and everyone is quiet after that.

Stiles’s heart speeds up when he hears the growl, but he doesn’t think it’s in fear. It’s certainly not in fascination, though.

Hale bursts through a door, and the morning sun suddenly blinds Stiles as they all shuffle out. They are on the roof, and Stiles recognizes it was one of the neighboring buildings next to the one they jumped on to.

Hale walks over to a railing, and presses a button on it, and suddenly, their are guns to match the on on Hale's back, rising from the room and intricately placed on a shelf.

“The first thing you will learn today is how to shoot a gun. The second thing is how to win a fight.” Hale presses a gun into Stiles's palm without looking at him and keeps walking. “Thankfully, if you're here, you already know how to get on and off a moving train, so I don’t need to teach you that.”

“Initiation is divided into three stages. We will measure your progress and rank you according to your performance in each stage. The stages are not weighed equally in determining your final rank, so it is possible, though difficult, to drastically improve your rank over time.” Hale continues as he hands out more and more guns.

Stiles stares at the weapon in his hand. Never in his life did he expect to hold a gun, let alone fire one. It feels dangerous to him, as if just by touching it, he could hurt someone.

Next to him, Scott laughs, miming shooting it behind the building.

“We believe that preparation eradicates cowardice, which we define as the failure to act in the midst of fear,” says Hale. “Therefore each stage of initiation is intended to prepare you in a different way. The first stage is primarily physical; the second, primarily emotional; the third, primarily mental.”

“But what. . .” Kali yawns through her words. “What does firing a gun have to do with. . .bravery? Why can't I just. . .use my claws?”

Hale flips the gun in his hand, presses the barrel to Kali’s forehead, and clicks a bullet into place. Kali freezes with her lips parted, the yawn dead in her mouth.

“Wake. Up,” Hale snaps. “You are holding a loaded gun, you idiot. Act like it.”

He lowers the gun. Once the immediate threat is gone, Kali's green eyes harden. Claws appear in place of her fingernails, and Stiles is mildly shocked to realize that she’s a werewolf, suprised he didn't notice it before. Stiles is also surprised Kali can stop herself from responding, after speaking her mind all her life in Probity, but she does, her cheeks red.

“And to answer your question. . .you are far less likely to shit your pants and cry for your mother if you’re prepared to defend yourself.” Hale stops walking at the end of the row and turns on his heel. “This is also information you may need later in stage one. So, watch me.”

He faces the wall with the targets on it—one square of plywood with three red circles on it for each of them. He stands with his feet apart, holds the gun in both hands, and fires. The bang is so loud it hurts Stiles's ears. He cranes his neck to look at the target. The bullet went through the middle circle.

He turns to his own target. His family would never approve of him firing a gun. His dad maybe, but certainly not his mom.

He pushes his family from his mind, sets his feet shoulder-width apart, and delicately wrap both hands around the handle of the gun. It’s heavy and hard to lift away from his body, but he wants it to be as far from his face as possible. Stiles squeezes the trigger, hesitantly at first and then harder, cringing away from the gun. The sound hurts his ears again and the recoil sends his hands back, toward his nose. He stumbles, pressing his hand to the wall behind him for balance. He doesn’t know where the bullet went, but he knows it’s not near the target.

He fires again and again and again, and none of the bullets come close.

“Statistically speaking,” the Tutelage girl next to him, Lydia, says, grinning at him, “you should have hit the target at least once by now, even by accident.” Her red hair is still pulled away from her face, her braid only slightly messy, and her manicured eyebrows raise.

“Is that so,” Stiles says without inflection.

“Yeah,” She says. “I think you’re actually defying nature.”

He grits his teeth and turns toward the target, resolving to at least stand still. If he can’t master the first task they give him, how will he ever make it through stage one?

He squeezes the trigger, hard, and this time he’s ready for the recoil. It makes his hands jump back, but his feet stay planted. A bullet hole appears at the edge of the target, and he raises an eyebrow at Lydia.

“So you see, I’m right. The stats don’t lie,” She says.

Stiles smiles at her.

It takes him five rounds to hit the middle of the target, and when he does, a rush of energy washes through his veins. He lowers the gun and turns to Scott. There is power in controlling something that can do so much damage—in controlling something, period.

Maybe he does belong here.

“This is pointless. If I have to attack someone, why wouldn’t I just use my claws?” Scott asks, and Stiles looks at his target. None of the bullets have come close to the middle circle.

“Just take a deep breath, buddy. Steady yourself. You have supernatural reflexes, dude. Use them.” Stiles says, turning back to his own target.

Scott turns back to his target, raises his gun, steadies himself, and takes a deep breath. When he squeezes the trigger, it’s closer to the middle, but still off by a lot.

He groans, “How are you so good at this Stiles!”

Stiles laughs, “I don’t know, Scotty. I get it now.”

He takes another shot and hits the center, looking back to Scott and smirking.

“You still need to plant your feet. And open your eyes.” Someone behind him says, and Stiles looks over his shoulder to see Hale watching him. Stiles just nods in reply, and Hale moves down the line again.

“I’m telling you, Stiles. Creepy.” Scott says, waggling his fingers at him. Stiles laughs again, and then turns back to his own target.

-

Hale leads them to a new room after a couple hours of target practice. It’s huge, with a cement floor that is cracked and has a layer of chalk over it and has a large circle painted in the middle. On the left wall is a technical looking board—touchscreen.

Stiles sees his and the other initiate’s names are projected on the board in alphabetical order. Hanging at three-foot intervals along one end of the room are faded orange punching bags.

They line up behind them and Hale stands in the middle, where all the initiates can see him.

“As I said this morning,” says Hale, “next you will learn how to fight. The purpose of this is to prepare you to act; to prepare your body to respond to threats and challenges —which you will need, if you intend to survive life as a Valiant.”

Stiles hasn’t thought much about life after initiation. He doesn’t know where he would fit in amongst the crazy Valiant members.

“We’ll go over technique this week, and next week you will start to fight each other,” Hale continues. “So I recommend that you pay attention. Those who don’t learn fast will get hurt.”

Hale names a few different punches, demonstrating each one as he does, first against the air and then against the punching bag. He’s wearing a black t-shirt like the rest of them, but it fits him better than it does anyone else. His muscles are bulging underneath it, and Stiles feels his cheeks heat up at a particularly hard punch that shows off his back muscles.

Hale announces that it’s time for them to try, so Stiles goes and stands behind a punching bag. He hits it a couple of times, but it doesn’t sound nor swing nearly as much as when Hale or the other initiates around him hit it. He catches on as they practice after a few swings. Like with the gun, he tries to figure out how to hold himself and how to move his body to make it look like Hale's. The kicks are more difficult, though he only teaches them the basics. The punching bag stings his hands and feet, turning his skin red, and barely moves no matter how hard he hist it. All around him is the sound of skin hitting tough fabric.

Hale wanders through the crowd of initiates, like he did on the roof, watching them as they go through the movements again. When he stops in front of Stiles, his insides twist like someone’s stirring them with a fork. He stares at him, his eyes following Stiles's body from his head to his feet, not lingering anywhere—a practical, scientific gaze that Stiles wishes would have lasted longer.

“You don’t have much muscle,” he says, “you’re too lithe, which means you’re better off using your knees and elbows. You can put more power behind them.”

Suddenly he presses a hand to Stiles’s stomach. His fingers are so long that, though the heel of his hand touches one side of Stiles’s rib cage, his fingertips still touch the other side. Stiles’s heart pounds so hard his chest hurts, and he stares at Hale, wide-eyed. He knows Hale can probably hear his erratic heartbeat, which isn’t helping the blush forming on Stiles’s neck.

“Never forget to keep tension here,” he says in a quiet voice.

Hale lifts his hand and keeps walking. Stiles feels the pressure of his palm even after he’s gone. It’s strange, but he has to stop and breathe for a few seconds before he can keep practicing again.

They do that for a couple more hours, rotating between punching and kicking. Scott’s much better at this than he was shooting the gun, and Stiles notices even Lydia is much better at fighting than shooting. The Argent girl stands next to her, watching her as she fights. Lydia is tiny, so she’s having trouble kicking, but Allison seems to be helping her.

Allison herself is mesmerizing to watch. She moves fluidly, like she’s been doing it for years. It isn’t the first time he’s wondered if she was a Valiant-born initiate, and he doesn’t understand how she’s so good is she was born in Tutelage.

Stiles catches Scott watching her, and Stiles already knows something is going to happen there.

After even seems exhausted enough, Hale dismisses everyone for dinner. Scott and Stiles wait for Isaac outside of the cement building, and when he passes Stiles, Isaac nudges him with his elbow.

“I’m surprised he didn’t break you in half,” He says. He wrinkles his nose. “He scares the hell out of me. It’s that quiet voice he uses.”

“Yeah. He’s. . .” Stiles looks over his shoulder at him. He is quiet, and remarkably self- possessed. But Stiles wasn’t afraid that he would hurt him. “. . . definitely intimidating,” He finally says.

“And can probably hear you talking about him, so I suggest you move.” A new voice pipes in, and Stiles sees Lydia out of the corner of his eye. Allison stands by her side, staring at them. Stiles makes eye contact with her, but he’s slightly afraid to say anything, so he just smiles at her. She gives him a tight-lipped grin back before Lydia yanks her arm and they’re walking away towards the dining hall.

Scott watches them go, “Man, that brunette is hot.”

“She would kill you in your sleep, Scotty.” Stiles says laughing at his face.

“Hey man, if you don’t like your balls where they are now, go for it.” Isaac says, and Stiles leans over and fist bumps him. Yeah, Stiles is definitely going to like Isaac.

-

It continues like that for the rest of the week, training in the cement room, along with sporadic weight conditioning and runs. They pass a group of the sectorless one day, and Jackson mumbles something about half the initiates ending up like them that gets them all in trouble and ends with them running another ten miles.

Stiles has never been this physically exhausted in his life, but he’s starting to gain new muscle. He’s still lithe and skinny, but around his stomach, chest, arms, and legs, he’s starting to fill out nicely.

He hasn’t been thinking about his family a lot lately, but he misses them dearly. He wonders what they do now, sitting in silence or grasping onto each other words as so not to hear Stiles’s missing voice?

He likes to think that they’re still busy, doing their jobs and not missing him so much it hurts. He’ll see them soon enough, and then they can talk. God, he can’t wait to talk.

That is, if they even want to hear him.

-

The next week, they’re all brought back into the training room, and Hale makes the announcement that they will be fighting each other.

“Since there are an odd number of you, one of you won’t be fighting today,” says Hale, stepping away from the board in the training room. He gives Stiles a look. The space next to his name says Jackson.

The knot in his stomach ravels. A reprieve.

“This isn’t good,” says Scott, nudging him with his elbow. His elbow prods one of Stiles’s sore muscles—he has more sore muscles than not-sore muscles, this morning —and he winces.

“Ow. Watch the human.”

“Sorry,” He says. “But look. I’m up against Kali.”

Scott and Stiles sat together with Isaac at breakfast, and even Lydia and Allison came to sit with them. But Lydia means Jackson, and Jackson has made it his mission to torment Sties for being a human in a supernatural complex, and well, Stiles didn’t come all the way from Idem to be submissive again, so he may have sarcastically replied to him about believing that Jackson would definitely make it, and that pissed Jackson off in more ways than Stiles cares to think about. But it’s not good now, because he’s the one who will be fighting Jackson after he’s already been branded an enemy. Oh well, Jackson can get over it.

“Kali?” Stiles finds Scott’s name on the board. Written next to it is “Kali,” with a picture of her. She literally looks crazy.

“Yeah, Ennis’s slightly more feminine-looking minion,” Scott says, nodding toward the cluster of people on the other side of the room. Kali is tall like Ennis, but that’s where the similarities end. She has broad shoulders, bronze skin, and a bulbous nose.

“Kali and Ennis”—Scott points at her—“have been inseparable since they crawled out of the womb, practically. I hate them.”

“How do you know Kali and Ennis?” Stiles asks, not recalling a time where Scott has mentioned either of them.

“Ennis is a Probity dick, and Kali was his girlfriend. My mom came from Probity, remember? We used to go and visit her family in Probity that she left behind for my piece of shit dad. Kali and Ennis were always there, and they bullied everyone, and used to make up stories about why they’d bully them. And of course, everyone believed them. They're Probity, and they can’t lie."

A loud thud catches Stiles and Scott’s attention, and they look over to see Lydia and Allison standing across each other in the circle. They put their hands up by their faces to protect themselves, like Hale taught them to do, and shuffle in a circle around each other. Allison is a couple inches taller than Lydia, and stronger too. As Stiles stares at them, he realizes that even Allison's facial features are big—big nose, big lips, big eyes. This fight won’t last long, but he knows they’ll still be friends afterwards.

Stiles glance back at Kali her friends. She’s standing by Jackson, but she has he back to them, talking to a pair of Tutelage twins. The twins are tall, and Stiles doesn’t recognize them from anywhere, but he knows their names are Ethan and Aiden.

“I guess Kali followed Ennis to Valiant.” Scott says.

Scott wrinkles his nose and adds, “Those twins are just her sidekicks. I doubt she has an independent thought in her brain. And those twins. . .they're the kind of people who fire ants with a magnifying glass just to watch them flail around.”

In the arena, Allison punches Lydia in the jaw. He winces. Across the room, Deucalion smirks at Allison, and turns one of the rings on his hand. She quickly looks away with a disgusted look on her face.

Lydia stumbles to the side, one hand pressed to her face, and blocks Allison’s next punch with her free hand. Judging by her grimace, blocking the punch is as painful as a blow would have been. Allison is nice, but powerful.

Kali and the twins cast furtive looks in Stiles and Scott's direction and then pull their heads together, whispering.

“I think they know we’re talking about them,” Stiles says.

“So? They already know I hate them. And of course they know. They’re all werewolves, they can hear us.” Scott scoffs.

“They do? How?”

Scott glances back at them, says, “I’ve told them I hate them. I don’t just stand back and watch people get hurt, dude. I may have been born in Idem, but I’m not a submissive.”

Stiles nods a little at that and focus on the arena again. Lydia and Allison face each other for a few more seconds, more hesitant than they were before. Lydia flicks her red hair from her eyes. Allison stands in a defensive pose, but she’s distracted. Stiles can tell they both don’t want to hurt the other.

They glance at Hale like they’re waiting for him to call the fight off, but he stands with his arms folded, giving no response. A few feet away from him, Deucalion stands with his arms crossed, his head bowed like he’s straining to hear.

After a few seconds of circling, Deucalion shouts, “Do you think this is a leisure activity? Should we break for nap-time? Fight each other!”

“But. . .” Allison straightens, letting her hands down, and says, “Is it scored or something? When does the fight end?” This is the first time Stiles has heard her speak, and he notices the strength in her words.

“It ends when one of you is unable to continue,” says Deucalion.

“According to Valiant rules,” Hale says, “one of you could also concede.”

Deucalion turns his head in Hale’s direction, smirking. “According to the old rules,” he says. “In the new rules, no one concedes.”

“A brave man acknowledges the strength of others,” Hale replies.

“A brave man never surrenders.” Deucalion says, and silence follows.

Hale and Deucalion look at each other for a few seconds. Stiles feels like he is looking at two different kinds of Valiant—the honorable kind, and the ruthless kind. But even he knows that in this room, it’s Deucalion, the oldest leader of the Valiant, who has the authority.

Beads of sweat dot Allison’s forehead; she wipes them with the back of her hand.

“This is ridiculous,” Allison says, shaking her head. “What’s the point of beating her up? We’re in the same sector!”

“Oh, you think it’s going to be that easy?” Lydia asks, grinning. “Go on. Try to hit me, smarty.”

Lydia puts her hands up again, ready for a fight.

That is, if she can actually hit Alison. Lydia tries a punch, and Allison ducks, the back of her neck shining with sweat. She dodges another punch, slipping around Lydia and kicking her hard in the back. Lydia lurches forward and turns.

Allison looks at Lydia, grabbing her arm so she can’t slip away, and punches her one last time.

Lydia slips from Allison’s grasp standing on the outside. Allison watches her, and with one last punch, Lydia is knocked on the ground.

Stiles hears Jackson shout, “Allison!” like he can’t believe she just knocked out his girlfriend. Stiles knows now that he has to do whatever it takes to survive in Valiant, so he thinks Allison’s choice to end the fight was smart.

Allison crouches next to Lydia, pulling her arms up and around her neck. The room falls silent as they watch her, clearly in amazement of her action.

“Take her to the medic,” Deucalion says. His head is positioned straight ahead, and there's a greedy smile on his face, like hearing the fight is a meal and he hasn’t eaten in weeks. The curl of his lip is cruel.

Hale turns to a tablet in his hand and highlights Allison’s name so it appears on the board. Victory.

Deucalion seems to scan the crowd, then suddenly calls, "“Next up—Jackson and Stiles!” Scott pats him on the shoulder as his blood runs cold.

Stiles cracks his knuckles, takes a deep breath. He hears Scott wish him luck, but he doesn’t know what good that would do. He isn’t weak, but Stiles is much narrower than Jackson. They are about the same height, but Jackson is a lot bigger than he is.

Before he goes to step in the circle, Hale is in his line of sight, and he makes like he’s going to walk past Stiles, but he stops in front of him instead, grabbing his arm, hisses, “Use your weight. He’s bigger than you, so use your speed. He steps before he punches.” then lets go as soon as he grabbed it.

Stiles stands frozen, looking down behind his shoulder before his eyes slam up to Hale’s. Hale nods at him, and then turns his body parallel with the circle. Stiles nods back, taking another deep breath, before pushing on into the circle.

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t be scared, Stiles!” Jackson says, stretching his arms.

Stiles scoffs, “Scared of you? Clearly I’m no match for your ignorance.”

His heart is beating in his ear, but he can hear a couple of low whistles and laughs as Jackson grows angrier.

“Laugh it up, Squatter. You won’t be laughing for long, assclown.”

“Ooh, insults. My bad, I guess. I could have sworn I was dealing with an adult.” Stiles replies, and that really sets Jackson off. He moves quickly, if a bit hesitant, and swiftly punches Stiles in the jaw. He takes a couple steps back, wiping the bruise that will no doubt form on his face.

“You know, I might go easy on you if you beg, human. C’mon, just one tear.” Jackson snarks, and the smirk on his face looks absolutely sickening.

The thought of begging Jackson for mercy makes him taste bile, and on an impulse, he kicks him in the side. Or, he would have kicked him in the side, if he hadn’t caught Stiles’s foot and yanked it forward, knocking him off-balance. Stiles’s back smacks into the floor, and he pulls his foot free, scrambling to his feet.

He has to stay on his feet so he can’t kick him in the head. That’s the only thing Stiles can think about.

“Stop playing with him,” snaps Deucalion. “I don’t have all day.”

Jackson’s mischievous look disappears. His arm twitches and pain stabs his jaw again and spreads across his face, making Stiles’s vision go black at the edges and his ears ring. He blinks and lurches to the side as the room dips and sways. Stiles doesn’t remember Jackson's fist coming at him.

He is too off-balance to do anything but move away from him, as far as the arena will allow. He darts in front of Stiles and kicks him hard in the stomach. His foot forces the air from his lungs and it hurts, hurts so badly he can’t breathe, or maybe that’s because of the kick, he doesn’t know, he just falls.

Getting on his feet is the only thought in his mind. He pushes himself up, but Jackson is already there. He grabs Stiles's arm with one hand and punches him in the nose with the other. This pain is different, less like a stab and more like a crackle, crackling in his brain, spotting his vision with different colors, blue, green, red. He tries to shove him off, his hands slapping at his arms, and he punches Stiles again, this time in the ribs. Stiles’s face is wet. Bloody nose. More red, he guesses, but he's too dizzy to look down.

Jackson shoves him and he falls again, scraping his hands on the ground, blinking, sluggish and slow and hot. He coughs and drags himself to his feet. He really should be lying down if the room is spinning this fast. And Jackson spins around him; he is the center of a spinning planet, the only thing staying still. Something hits him from the side and he almost falls over again.

He can hear Scott and Isaac yelling “C’mon Stiles!” off to the side over the rushing of blood in his ears. It makes him feel better, and once he gets far enough away to really see Jackson, he watches as Jackson steps to make a punch, but before he can deliver it, Stiles hits him hard in the throat.

Jackson chokes, moving to grab his neck, before he looks up and Stiles sees what fury in his eyes.

Stiles sees Jackson rushing toward him, and he punches as hard as he can, his fist hitting something soft. Jackson groans in pain, but smacks his ear with the flat of his palm, laughing under his breath. Stiles hears ringing and tries to blink some of the black patches out of his eyes; how did something get in his eye?

Jackson knocks him on the ground again, and out of his peripheral vision, he sees Hale shove past some initiates and walk out. Apparently this fight isn’t interesting enough for him. Or maybe he’s going to find out why everything’s spinning like a top, and Stiles doesn’t blame him; he wants to know the answer too.

Stiles’s knees give out and the floor is cool against his cheek. Something slams into his side and he groans, a high screech that belongs to someone else and not him, and it slams into his side again, and he can’t see anything at all, not even whatever is right in front of his face, the lights out. Someone shouts, “Enough!” and he thinks too much and nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

When Stiles wakes up, he doesn’t feel much, but the inside of his head is fuzzy, like it’s packed with cotton balls.

He knows that he lost, and the only thing keeping the pain at bay is what is making it difficult to think straight.

“Is his eye already black?” someone asks.

Stiles opens one eye—the other stays shut like it’s glued that way. Sitting to his right are Lydia and Isaac; Scott sits on the bed to his left with an ice pack on his cheekbone.

“What happened to your face?” Stiles asks. His jaw stings slightly when he opens it.

Scott laughs. “Look who’s talking. Should we get you an eye patch?”

“Well, I already know what happened to my face,” Stiles says. “I was there. Sort of.”

“Did you just make a joke, Stiles?” Lydia says, grinning. “We should get you on painkillers more often if you’re going to start cracking jokes. Oh, and to answer your question—Kali beat him up.”

“I can’t believe you couldn’t beat Kali,” Isaac says, shaking his head.

“What? She’s good,” Scott says, shrugging. “Plus, I think I’ve finally learned how I’m not healing. They’re putting something in the water to make it delayed.”

“You know, you’d think you would have figured that out already.” Lydia winks at him. “Now I know why you aren’t Tutelage. Not too bright, are you?”

“You feeling okay, Stiles?” Isaac says. His eyes are dark blue, almost the same color as the bruins forming on Lydia's skin. His cheek looks smooth, like if he doesn’t ever need to shave it. Hard to believe he’s only eighteen.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Just wish I could stay here forever so I never have to see Jackson again.”

But Stiles doesn’t really know where “here” is. He's in a large, narrow room with a row of beds on either side. Some of the beds have curtains between them. On the right side of the room is large mural in the shape of the Valiant sign, the three intertwined swirls, the triskele, that reports the sector’s motto, honor, pride, and strength. This must be where the Valiant go when they’re sick or hurt. There’s no one really around, so Stiles supposes not many members get sick. Some Valiant must volunteer to do jobs that traditionally belong to other sectors. After all, it wouldn’t make sense for the Valiant to make the trek to the city hospital every time they get hurt.

“Don’t worry about Jackson,” says Lydia. “He’ll at least get beat up by Kali, who has been studying hand-to-hand combat since we were ten years old. For fun.”

“Good,” says Isaac. He looks at a clock on the wall. “I think we’re missing dinner. Do you want us to stay here, Stiles?”

Stiles shakes his  head. “I’m fine.”

Lydia and Isaac get up, but Scott waves them ahead. He has a distinct smell—sweet and fresh, like sage and lemongrass. When he tosses and turns at night, Stiles gets a whiff of it, and it makes him feel at home.

“I wanted to tell you that you missed Deucalion’s announcement. We’re going to the Wall tomorrow, to learn about Valiant jobs,” he says. “We have to be at the train by eight fifteen.”

“Good,” Stiles says. “Thanks.”

“And don’t pay attention to what I said. Your face doesn’t look that bad.” He smiles a little. “I mean, it looks good. It always looks good. I mean—you look brave. Like a real Valiant.”

His eyes skirt Stiles's, and Stiles laughs, and he scratches the back of his head. Scott’s always been the one to reassure everything, so it’s a welcomed comment.

“What are you still doing here?,” he asks. “You should be at dinner, trying to woo Allison."

Scott laughs, a carefree laugh that Stiles hasn’t seen since they’ve gotten there, “Yeah, right. Like she'd go for me."

“Of course she would, Scotty. Seduce her with your boyish charm!” Stiles says, chuckling.

“I don’t want to leave you alone.” He says, moving so that he’s sitting on Stiles’s bed. Stiles smiles fondly at him, before pushing him off.

“I’m alright, Scotty. Go and have fun. I know Allison’s tough, but girls aren’t made of sugar, spice and everything nice. You have to work for it. And I’ll be fine. It would do me good to have some rest.” Stiles says, shooing him out the door.

Scott laughs one more time, waves at him, and leaves without another word.

Later that night, Stiles thinks about the nearing Visiting Day that will arrive, and can’t help but feel  sense of relief. He knows Melissa will come to visit Scott, and he knows that his parents will come to visit him. The thought makes him steady, and for the first time since he’s been in Valiant, it feels as if the weight on his shoulders has lifted. He’s going to be alright, just like he told Scott.

He’s also not going to spend the night in the Sick Ward. The only thing worse than letting Jackson put him in there would be letting him put him there overnight, and Stiles wasn’t raised to be a quitter.

-

Stiles climbs the steps from the Hole to the glass building above it and runs to the exit. Every thump of his feet sends pain through his ribs, but he ignores it. He makes it to the tracks just as a train arrives, its horn blaring.

“What took you so long?” Lydia shouts over the horn.

“Stumpy Legs over here turned into an old man overnight,” says Scott. Scott had to help Stiles get his shoes on, and some parts of his clothing, like his jacket, and he knows  that Scott is only kidding, but he doesn’t want to think about his failure, or anything else about Jackson.

“Oh, shut up.” Stiles says, only half kidding.

Hale stands at the front of the pack, so close to the tracks that if he shifted even an inch forward, the train would take his foot with it. He steps back to let some of the others get on first. Lydia hoists herself into the car with some difficulty, landing first on her stomach and then dragging her legs in behind her. Hale grabs the handle on the side of the car and pulls himself in smoothly, like he doesn’t have more than six feet of body to work with.

Stiles jogs next to the car, wincing, then grits his teeth and grabs the handle on the side. This is going to hurt.

Scott grabs him under each arm and lifts him easily into the car. Pain shoots through his side, but it only lasts for a second, and he doesn’t even have time to feel embarrassed to have his best friend lift him up like a child. He sees Jackson behind him, and his cheeks get warm anyway  Scott was just doing what he always does, taking care of his human best friend, but he wishes Scott didn’t want to be so helpful. As if Jackson didn’t have enough ammunition already.

“Feeling okay there?” Jackson asks, giving Stiles a look of mock sympathy—his lips turned down, his arched eyebrows pulled in. “Or are you just a too tired from. . .Squatting?”

He bursts into laughter at his joke, and Lydia and Allison roll their eyes.

“We are all awed by your incredible wit,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes along with Allison and Lydia.

“Yeah, are you sure you don’t belong with the Tutelage, Jackson?” Scott adds. “I hear they don’t object to sissies.”

Hale, standing in the doorway, speaks before Jackson can retort. “Am I going to have to listen to your bickering all the way to the Wall?”

Everyone gets quiet, and Hale turns back to the car’s opening. He holds the handles on either side, his arms stretching wide, and leans forward so his body is mostly outside the car, though his feet stay planted inside. The wind presses his shirt to his chest. Stiles notices his muscles, and looks away before he is caught staring. He tries to look past him at what they’re passing—the large blue body of water Stiles saw earlier, and he steps forward to look at it.

Every few seconds, though, his eyes shift back to Hale. He doesn’t know what to expect to see, or what he wants to see, if anything. But he does it without thinking.

“What is that?” He asks, holding the handles as he half topples out of the car. He needs to get a better look, see what exactly the glistening blue is.

“You’ve never seen the ocean?” Isaac asks, looking at Stiles in disbelief.

“That what it’s called?” Stiles asks back, turning to stare at it. He can’t help the smile that grazes his lips as he takes in it’s beauty.

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen the ocean.” Someone to his left says, but Stiles is too busy staring at it to notice who it is. He wants to get closer, examine it more.

“Idems aren’t allowed to do anything.” Hale says, and everyone’s eyes snap to them. “There’s a reason they're called submissives. They aren’t allowed to self-indulge.”

Everyone gets quiet at that, and Stiles just turns back around to look at the ocean, occasionally glancing at Hale’s back. They quickly come upon the metal wall, and Stiles takes it all in. It’s huge, with metal platforms stacked in a chain-link form that tower higher and higher. Stiles has seen buildings that are smaller than the Wall, and now realizes why it’s talked about a lot.

Stiles looks to Scott, “What do you think is out there?” He nods to the doorway. “I mean, beyond the Wall.” 

He shrugs. “A bunch of farms, I guess.”

“Yeah, but I mean...past the farms. What are we guarding the city from?”

Scott wiggles his fingers at Stiles. “Or what are they trying to keep in?”

Stiles just rolls his eyes.

“We didn’t even have guards near the Wall until five years ago,” says Lydia. “Don’t you remember when Valiant police used to patrol the sectorless sector?”

“Yes,” Stiles says. He used to watch them a lot when he was younger, mesmerized by their different abilities as they patrolled. Some were insanely strong, and some were extremely fast. Stiles longed to be one of them, a dream that he hopes can still come true, even if he is a human.

 

The train’s brakes squeal, and they all lurch forward as the car slows. Stiles flies straight into Hale, who looks back at him with dark eyes.

“I’m. . .sorry.” Stiles says, a little breathless.

Hale just holds his stare for a moment, before jumping out of the car. Stiles is grateful for the movement; it makes breathing easier. The dilapidated buildings are gone, replaced by yellow fields and train tracks. The train stops under an awning. He lowers himself to the grass, holding the handle to keep him steady.

In front of him is a metal gate taller than the train he just got off of. Past the Wall is a cluster of trees, most of them dead, some green. Milling around on the other side of the Wall, and up on the metal platforms his above them, are Valiant guards carrying guns.

“Follow me,” says Hale. He stays close to Scott and Isaac, and Lydia and Allison follow behind them. He doesn’t really want to be around Jackson, doesn’t think he can take the insults today.

Hale leads them towards the gate, which is as wide as a large house and opens up to the cracked pavement that the Amicita walk on everyday to get to their farms. He remembers his mom working at the Wall once, doing maintenance, and shakes that thought before he can touch on it.

Another pinch in his stomach forms. 

“If you don’t rank in the top five at the end of initiation, you will probably end up here,” Hale says to the group at large as he reaches the gate. “Once you are a Wall guard, there is some potential for advancement, but not much. You may be able to go on patrols beyond Amicitia’s farms, but—”

“Patrols for what purpose?” asks Lydia.

Hale lifts a shoulder. “I suppose you’ll discover that if you find yourself among them. As I was saying. For the most part, those who guard the Wall when they are young continue to guard the Wall. If it comforts you, some of them insist that it isn’t as bad as it seems.”

“Yeah. At least we won’t be driving buses or cleaning up other people’s messes like the Idem,” Someone whispers close to Stiles’s ear. He has to restrain himself from turning around, and Scott must know, because he slips a comforting arm around his shoulder.

“What rank were you?” Jackson asks Hale.

Stiles doesn’t expect Hale to answer, but he looked levelly at Jackson and says, “I was first.”

“And you chose to do this?” Jackson’s eyes are wide and round and dark green. “Why didn’t you get a government job?”

“I didn’t want one,” Hale says flatly. Stiles remembers what he said on the first day, about working in the military, where the Valiant monitor the city’s security. It's difficult for Stiles to imagine him there, surrounded by computers. To him, he belongs in the training room where he can move fluidly like Stiles thinks his body craves.

The Valiant told them about sector jobs in training once. The Valiant have limited options. They can guard the Wall or work for the security of the city. They can work in the Valiant compound, drawing tattoos or making weapons or even fighting each other for entertainment. Or they can work for the Valiant leaders. That sounds like Stiles's best option.

Stiles hasn’t seen his rank since he fought Jackson, but he knows that his rank is terrible. And he might be sectorless by the end of stage one.

They stop next to the gate. A few Valiant guards glance in their direction but not many. They are too busy pulling the doors—which are twice as tall as they are and several times wider—open to admit a truck.

The man driving wears a hat, a beard, and a smile. He stops just inside the gate and gets out. The back of the truck is open, and a few other Amicitia sit among the stacks of crates. Stiles peers at the crates—they hold apples. He’s never had an apple.

“Mieczyslaw?” an Amicitia girl says.

His head jerks at the sound of his name. One of the Amicitia in the back of the truck stands. She has dark blonde hair and a familiar nose, wide at the tip and narrow at the bridge, and light skin that Stiles remembers all too well. Heather. He tries to remember her at the Choosing and nothing comes to mind but the sound of his heart in his ears. Who else transferred? Did Liam? But Liam’s only sixteen, he’s got a while until he has to choose. Are there any Idem initiates this year? If Idem is fizzling, it’s the fault of the other sectors. Maybe they are just now realizing that submission only works if the person is willing, and not many in Idem are.

Heather hops down from the truck. She wears a brown T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans. After a second’s hesitation, she moves toward Stiles and folds him in her arms. Stiles stiffens. Only in Amicitia do people hug each other in greeting. He didn’t realize how much he missed Heather’s arms. But he doesn’t move a muscle until she releases him.

Heather’s smile fades when she looks at Stiles again. “Stilinski, what happened to you? What happened to your face?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says. “Just training. Nothing.”

“Stilinski?” demands a deep voice next to him. Aiden folds his arms and laughs. “Is that your real name, Squatter?”

Stiles glances at him. “What did you think Stiles was short for? And no, asshole, it’s my last name.”

“Oh, I don’t know. . .smart mouth?” He touches his chin. “Oh wait, that doesn’t start with Stiles. My mistake.”

“There’s no need to antagonize him,” Heather says softly. “I’m Heather, and you are?”

“Someone who doesn’t care what your name is,” He says. “Why don’t you get back in your truck? We’re not supposed to fraternize with other sector members.”

“I care what her name is.” Someone behind Aiden says, and Stiles looks behind to see him to see one of the other initiates, Theo, smirking. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Why don’t you get away from us?” Stiles snaps.

“Right. Wouldn’t want to get between you and your girlfriend,” Aiden says. He walks away smiling.

Heather gives him a sad look. “They don’t seem like nice people.”

“Some of them aren’t.”

“You could go home, you know. I’m sure Idem would make an exception for you.”

“What makes you think I want to go home? Why would they make an exception?” Stiles asks, his cheeks hot. “You think I can’t handle this or something?”

“It’s not that.” She shakes her head. “It’s not that you can’t, it’s that you shouldn’t have to. You should be happy.”

“This is what I chose. This is it.” Stiles replies, looking over Heather’s shoulder. The Valiant guards seem to have finished examining the truck. The bearded man gets back into the driver’s seat and closes the door behind him. “Besides, Heather. You shouldn’t care anymore. I’m not yours anymore. I never was. The goal of my life isn’t just. . .to be happy.”

Heather looks hurt at Stiles’s words, as if the reminder that they aren’t together anymore pains her, “Wouldn’t it be easier if it was, though?” he says.

Before Stiles can answer, Heather touches his shoulder and turns toward the truck. A boy in the back gives Stiles a dirty look, which shocks him. He didn’t know Amicitia members could have mean bones in their bodies. He reaches a hand out to help Heather as she hoists herself inside, and the truck starts forward, carrying the sounds of peace away from them.

-

The next train arrives, and once again, Stiles needs help to get into the car, but he feels like he’s beginning to become one with pain, and by the next couple of days when they’re all thrown in the training room again, he moves as fluidly as he is able, practicing knife throwing like he’s been doing it for years.

“You are insanely good at that.” A voice to his right says, and he looks over to find Allison watching him, her own knife placed in her palm.

“I’ve been studying hand to hand combat for years, but I guess I didn’t think knife throwing was important. I’m rather bad at it actually.” She continues, throwing a knife and hitting the cut out of a human target on the black wooden part. The targets are illuminated orange, like the punching bags, and Stiles has hit the middle circle resembling the head every time since he picked up a knife.

Stiles smiles at her, “I used to have this ball, this old ratty ball left behind by someone, and I would throw it against some of the trees, and I wouldn’t stop until I hit the same spot twenty times. I guess this is kind of like that.”

Allison smiles at him, then grabs another knife and begins practicing again. Stiles really likes Allison. Over the past couple of days, Allison has opened up more at their table, telling about how her parents always made her study combat in case an uprising happened, so that she would know how to defend herself, how she’s a werewolf and was kind of bullied by Tutelage members for being bitten after staying out too late one night. She also tells about how she was supposed to stay in Tutelage, but after years of studying that art of fighting, she become more and more fascinated with being in the military, like Hale, so she ultimately chose Valiant, something that she thinks her parents disapprove of. It’s not something she advertises, but Allison doesn’t think anyone will come to visit her on Visiting Day, and that really shut their table up after that.

Stiles is pulled from his thoughts a minute later, after hearing one of the trainers yell, “Malia! That was pathetic.”

“It slipped.” The Tutelage girl, Malia, replies, tensing when the trainer stands next to her.

“Go pick it up.” The trainer says, and it’s someone Stiles hasn’t seen before, but he thinks his name is Harris.

“While they’re throwing?” Malia scoffs, crossing her arms.

“Are you afraid?” Harris asks, getting unnecessarily close to her.

“Of getting stabbed by an airborne knife? You’re crazy.” Malia says, fixing him with a look of madness.

“Everybody stop.” A new voice pipes in, and Stiles looks over his shoulder to see Deucalion leaning against a cement pillar, his hands gripping his cane. The glasses on his face slip down a little, and Deucalion uses his cane to push them back up.

“Hale, give me a hand here.” He continues, motioning with his head for Hale to stand next to him. Stiles hadn’t even known that Hale was in the room, too focused on knife throwing, but now, he doesn’t know how he couldn’t notice. Hale is standing there, his black t-shirt hugging him in all the right ways, his beige pants looking stark against his black boots.

Hale stands by Deucalion, and looks completely menacing doing so. It sends a shiver up Stiles’s spine.

“Go stand in front of the target, Malia. You are going to stand there, completely still, while he throws these knives at you. If I hear you flinch, you’re out.” Deucalion says, and a collective gasp emits from the initiates. “One thing everyone will learn here is that orders are not optional.”

“Is this really necessary?” Hale asks, his body on high alert.

“I have the authority here, Hale. Do it.” Deucalion says.

Malia takes a deep breath and moves in front of the target, her arms behind her back. Hale walks over to a table on the side, grabbing four knives from it. He takes position beside Stiles, raising his arm to begin throwing the knives. Malia takes another breath, and closes her eyes as she shakes in fear.

“Stop.” Stiles says, and everyone looks at him, including Hale. “Anyone can stand in front of a target, dude. It doesn’t prove anything.”

“The human’s giving orders now? Well, then I guess you won’t have a problem taking her place, Stiles. I would love to see you bleed. And you won’t even heal as quickly as the werecoyote would.” Deucalion says, his signature smirk on his face.

Stiles scoffs, and walks towards Malia at the target, motioning with his head for her to move. She gives him a grateful look, and runs back to safety behind Hale, where all the other initiates stand. Scott is looking at him with a stern look, like he can’t believe Stiles would be so stupid as to stand in front of a target while getting knives thrown at him, Isaac just stares at him like he’s completely crazy, and Lydia looks appreciative. He turns his head away from them, placing his arms behind his back like Malia, staring right into Hale’s mysterious eyes.

“Same rules apply.” Deucalion says, motioning for Hale to continue.

Hale takes his position again, and his eyes are still on Stiles when he lifts his hand, pulls his elbow back, and throws the knife. It is just a flash in the air, and then Stiles hears a thud. The knife is buried in the board, half a foot away from his head. Stiles can’t help but close his eyes, stilling himself. He isn’t the one who is going to be kicked out because of this.

“You about done, Squatter?” asks Hale.

Stiles remember Malia’s wide eyes and look of fear and shakes his head. “No.”

“Eyes open, then.” He taps the spot between his eyebrows.

Stiles stares at him, pressing his hands to his sides so no one can see them shake. He passes a knife from his left hand to his right hand, and Stiles sees nothing but his eyes as the second knife hits the target in the crevice of his elbow. It’s nicked him a little.

“Come on, Stiles,” he says. “Let someone else stand there and take it.”

Why is he trying to goad Stiles into giving up? Does he want him to fail?

“Shut up, Hale!” Someone says, and Stiles thinks it may be Kali.

“Oh, c’mon, Hale. You can get closer than that.” Deucalion says, and Stiles spares a glance at him. He still has his glasses on, both his hands resting on his black cane, but Stiles can see his glasses illuminating a bright blood red where both his eyes would be, like Hale’s were on the first day. It takes Stiles a second to understand, but he realizes that Deucalion’s wolf eyes must be how he can see sometimes.

Hale laughs slightly, shaking his head, sniffling. He looks perplexed to be the one to do this, like he would rather be anywhere else. But Stiles knows Deucalion’s the one that’s in charge, so of course Hale has to follow. Against his better judgement, Stiles looks right in Hale’s eyes, holding his stare.

Stiles holds his breath as Hale turns the last knife in his hand. He sees a glint in his eyes as he pulls his arm back and lets the knife fly. It comes straight at Stiles, spinning, blade over handle. His body goes rigid. This time, when it hits the board, his ear stings, and blood tickles his skin. He touches his ear. Hale cut him.

And judging by the look he gives Stiles, he did it on purpose.

“Points for bravery, Stiles.” Deucalion says, smirking once more. Stiles is beginning to realize that his smirk is his go-to resting face. “Everyone continue.”

The initiates all stand in front of their other targets, and Stiles sees three things happen at one. Deucalion gives Kali a look, Hale starts walking away, and Kali grabs a knife and throws it right at Stiles’s chest right above his heart, before anyone can blink.

The last thing he remembers before passing out is Hale catching him as he falls to the ground.

-

When he wakes up again, he’s laying in the same bed as he was before, when Jackson had beat him in their fight. Scott, Isaac and Jackson are standing above him, with painful looks on their faces. Jackson has been hanging with them more, but only because of Lydia. Him and Stiles just ignore each other, and it works.

“Wow. . . you look. . .” Scott trails off, grimacing.

“Bad. Really bad.” Isaac says, and Scott leaps over and slaps his shoulder.

“Isaac!” He hisses giving him a death glare.

“Watch it, Amicita. I thought you all were supposed to be nice.” Stiles says, smiling at him, he tries to sit up, but there’s a poll on his chest. It all comes rushing back to him then, and he pulls his tee down to see a bandage just above his right nipple. “How long have I been in here?”

“About a day.” Scott says, fixing Stiles with a sorrowful look.

“A day?” Stiles says in disbelief, hurriedly sitting up, despite the pain in his chest. Scott steadily holds his shoulder, helping him sit.

“Hale came to visit you.” Jackson says, and all the air in Stiles’s lungs deflate.

“He did? What did he want?”

“To see if you were alright, I guess. He was pretty distraught when he brought you here after you got a knife thrown in your chest.” Isaac says, like he can’t believe it actually happened.

“Have you seen the scoreboard? Where am I?”

“You’re thirty. But, I mean, it’s better now. You were thirty-nine.” Isaac says reassuringly, trying to smile.

“Thirty! I have to be in the top twenty to make it, Isaac!” He runs a hand through his hair, wincing at the pull on his chest. “I’m never gonna make it.”

“I’m really sorry, Stiles.” Scott says, taking a deep breath.

Stiles looks around the room, takes in Scott and Isaac’s appearances. “Hey, why are you wearing those vest?”

Isaac tugs at his vest, and Scott gets a pained look on his face, “War games. We’re playing a game of rescue the damsel. Lydia and Allison are the damsels.”

Stiles nods, moving to get out of the bed completely, “Whoa, what are you doing?” Jackson says, running over to Stiles’s side to help him stand. Stiles pushes him away, and is surprised to find that Isaac lets him.

“I’m coming with you.” Stiles says matter-of-factly, moving to re-tie his boots.

“You can’t, Stiles.” Scott says, and he looks murderous and like a kicked puppy at the same time.

“What do you mean, Scott? Yes I can.”

“No, you literally can’t Stiles. Deucalion said you were done, that this wasn’t a place for humans anyway. He had everyone convinced you wouldn’t make it.” Isaac says when Scott looks unwilling to reply.

Stiles scoff, “It’s a flesh wound. I’m fine. And I’m perfectly capable getting out of the Ward and playing a simple game.”

“I wish it were that simple, Stiles. But you’re out now.” Isaac says, and Stiles wants to tell him to stop it, to quit being so mean, but he can’t. Isaac is just telling him how it is. Stiles wonders if Isaac would have fit better in Probity, but he guesses his calm and peaceful nature was Amicitia all along.

“We’re sorry, Stiles.” Scott says, and Stiles can tell he really means it. He doesn’t want to leave Stiles, or for Stiles to leave him, and he has to chuckle lightly at that.

“We’ve gotta go, Scott. We’re gonna miss the train.” Isaac says, placing a hand on Scott’s shoulder.

“Alright.” He says, and Stiles can see his eyes glistening. Scott leans down to hug him, and Stiles hugs back as hard as he is able, pats him on the back. He’s really going to miss him.

Isaac hugs him next, and Jackson just gives him a nod, like he finally respects Stiles now, and with a couple of byes and Scott and Stiles both shedding some tears, they leave without a glance back. Stiles supposes it’s easier that way, to not be so attached.

He just can’t believe he’s out now. After trying so hard and not even making it past the first stage. Stiles seriously can’t believe it. He was even getting better, too.

No, he’s not going to accept this. He can make it in Valiant. All he has to do is prove to everyone that he belongs there, that he can do what everyone needs to do.

All he has to do is make the train.

-

Stiles can see the train in front of him, pulling away as a couple of initiates jump onto it. He runs faster, parallel to the tracks. He used to run a lot when he was in Idem. It made him feel powerful after always being submissive. He hopes that he can channel that power now, make it to the train before it’s too late.

He looks up at it again, and even in the darkness, he can see Hale’s pricing eyes. He standing half out of the train, looking at the sky. Stiles runs faster. He isn’t going to let this train escape him.

Hale looks at him, either shocked to see him running or staring at him in disbelief. Stiles is getting closer, can feel the strain in his legs as he runs. His arms are propelling him forward, and slowly, the gap between him and the train is closing.

Hale watches him, looks towards the beginning of the train to see if anyone else is. He looks like he’s debating telling the train to slow down or telling someone else that Stiles is outside of it. He has to know Deucalion’s decision, has to know that Stiles isn’t technically apart of Valiant anymore.

He doesn’t seem to care though, and as Stiles begins to run parallel with the train, Hale reaches his arm out, and Stiles lunges at it. His hand closes around Hale’s and Stiles can feel the callouses on it, before he is being lifted and dropped into the car. Even the muscles in his forearm are strong, taut and defined, something Stiles appreciates.

He looks back at Hale, breathless either from the run or Hale himself, and says, “Thanks.”

Hale just nods, and leans back against the car.

“What are you doing here?” He hears Scott ask, a wide smile on his face. He claps Stiles on the back, and hugs him to his chest.

“I just. . . had to catch the train.” He replies, swallowing down air.

“Who let you out?” A new voice joins in, and Stiles turns to see Ennis, the first leader he saw on that first day, addressing him.

“I did.” He replies, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You did?” Ennis asks, nodding and smiling maniacally. “Alright.”

Scott and Isaac gather him in a hug then, and everything seems alright. He sees Hale out of the corner of his eye, watching him, so Stiles walks over to him, leans against the car exactly how Hale is. 

“I’m worried that you have a knack for making unwise decisions,” he says when Stiles is fully leaning against the car.

Stiles crosses his arms. “It was a split decision.”

“I don’t think a smaller time frame makes it any less unwise.” He furrows his eyebrows and touches the corner of Stiles's bruised jaw with his fingertips. His head jerks back, but he doesn’t take his hand away. Instead he tilts his head and sighs. “You know, if you could just learn to attack first, you might do better.”

“Attack first?” Stiles asks. “How will that help?”

“You’re fast. If you can get a few good hits in before they know what’s going on, you could win.” He shrugs, and his hand falls.

“I’m surprised you know that,” Stiles says quietly, “since you left halfway through my one and only fight.”

“It wasn’t something I particularly wanted to watch,” he says.

_What’s that supposed to mean?_

“Is your—” he begins.

“No, you don’t get to ask me about it.” Stiles says. “I’ve already been stabbed once, and then you had to go and cut me, twice."

“That’s seriously what you're mad about? Not that fact that a crazy psycho bitch threw a knife at you?” Hale asks, looking at Stiles as though he’s lost his mind. "And, technically, I cut you before a knife came flying at your chest, and yes, I did,” he says quietly. “And you should thank me for helping you.”

Stiles grits his teeth. “Thank you? You stabbed my ear, nicked my arm, and you spent the entire time taunting me. Why should I _thank_ you?”

“You know, I’m getting a little tired of waiting for you to catch on!” Hale hisses, and a couple of people in the train car look at them. He glares back, and everyone turns away.

He turns his glare at Stiles next, and even when he glares, his eyes look thoughtful. Their shade of hazel is peculiar, so dark it is almost black, with a small patch of lighter yellow on the left iris, right next to the corner of his eye.

“Catch on? Catch on to what? That you wanted to prove to Deucalion how tough you are? That you’re sadistic, just like he is?”

“I am not _sadistic_.” He doesn’t yell. Stiles almost wishes he would yell. It would scare him less. He leans his face close to Stiles's, which reminds him of the wolf's fangs in the aptitude test, and says, “If I wanted to hurt you, don’t you think I would have already?”

“I - “ Stiles is about to reply, but a particular sharp turn causes Stiles to stumble into Hale’s chest. Hale just looks down at him, and Stiles pulls away with a dark blush on his cheeks.

The silence that follows is a little awkward, just starting into each other’s eyes so close that Stiles can feel the heat radiating off of Hale. He has to readjust the bandage on his chest, having jostled it when he bounced into Hale’s chest, and Hale’s eyes track the movement.

The moment breaks, however, when Ennis sits down a black metal box and shouts, “Everyone grab a gun!”

Everyone rushes toward the pile. Stiles and Hale are the closest ones to it, so Stiles snatches the first gun he can find, which is heavy, but not too heavy for him to lift, and grabs a second one for Hale. He slings the gun across his back so the strap crosses his chest, careful of his wound. The gun is red and long, so it hangs snugly on his back, occasionally bumping his neck as he moves to lean back against the car again.

A circle of light appears on his left, far away. It grows larger as it comes closer, shining against the side of Hale’s face, creating a shadow in the faint hollow beneath his cheekbone, and Stiles can see the moon peeking out behind Hale’s head.

“You call these things guns?” Jackson scoffs.

Hale shifts his body and points it at him, shooting him in the leg. Jackson falls back, shouting in pain. “Neuro-stim darts. They stimulate the pain of a real gunshot wound, but it only last a couple of minutes. The product of harvested kanima venom.” Hale says, smiling a patronizing smile at Jackson, who just glares.

“We’ll be dividing into two teams to play rescue the damsel.” Hale says, addressing the entire crowd. "Each team will have an even mix of members, Valiant-born initiates, and transfers. One team will get off first and find a place to hide their flag. Then the second team will get off and do the same.” The car sways, and Hale grabs the side of the doorway for balance. “This is a Valiant tradition, so I suggest you take it seriously.”

“What do we get if we win?” someone shouts.

“Sounds like the kind of question someone not from Valiant would ask,” says Hale, raising an eyebrow. “You get to win, of course.”

“Hale and I will be your team captains,” says Ennis. He looks at Hale. “Let’s divide up transfers first, shall we?”

Stiles tilts his head back and lets out a light groan. If they’re picking the transfers, Stiles will be chosen last; he can feel it.

“You go first,” Hale says.

Ennis shrugs. “Aiden.”

Hale leans against the door frame and nods. The moonlight makes his eyes bright. He scans the group of transfer initiates briefly, without calculation, and says, “I'll take the human.”

A faint undercurrent of laughter fills the car. Heat rushes into Stiles’s cheeks. He doesn’t know whether to be angry at the people laughing at him or flattered by the fact that Hale chose him first.

“Got something to prove?” asks Ennis, with a smirk on his face. “Or are you just picking the weak ones so that if you lose, you’ll have someone to blame it on?”

Hale shrugs. “Something like that.”

Angry. Stiles should definitely be angry. He scowls at his hands. It’s like the conversation they just had meant nothing to Hale. Whatever Hale’s strategy is, it’s based on the idea that Stiles is weaker than the other initiates. And it gives him a bitter taste in his mouth. He has to prove him wrong—he has to.

“Your turn,” Hale says.

“Jackson.”

“Scott.”

That throws a wrench in his strategy. Scott isn’t one of the weak ones. _What exactly is he doing?_

“Ethan.”

“Isaac,” says Hale, biting his thumbnail.

“Hayden.”

“Danny.”

“Kali.”

“Greenberg.” Someone scoffs at that one.

“Brett.”

“Theo.”

“Last one left is Garett. So he’s with me,” says Ennis. “Valiant-born initiates next.”

Stiles stops listening once they’re finished with the transfers. If Hale isn’t trying to prove something by choosing the weak, what is he doing? Stiles looks at each person he chooses. What do they have in common?

Once they’re halfway through the Valiant-born initiates, Stiles has an idea of what it is. With the exception of Theo, Scott, and a couple of the others, every on Hale’s team all share the same body type: narrow shoulders, small frames. All the people on Ennis’s team are broad and strong. Just a couple minutes ago, Hale told him he was fast. His team will all be faster than Ennis’s team, which will probably be good for rescue the damsel. Stiles doesn't really know what the game entails, but he knows it’s probably a game of speed rather than brute force. He covers a smile with his hand. Ennis is more ruthless than Hale, but Hale is smarter.

They finish choosing teams, and Ennis smirks at Hale.

“I get the pretty redhead to be on my side. You’ll rescue her.”

He hears Lydia scoff, but Hale just nods, “Fine, we get Allison."

“Your team can get off second,” says Ennis.

“Don’t do me any favors,” Hale replies. He smiles a little. “You know I don’t need them to win.”

“No, I know that you’ll lose no matter when you get off,” says Ennis, smirking. “Take your scrawny team and get off first, then.”

They all stand up, and Stiles takes a moment to calm himself. His wound is really hurting, and Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if it was bleeding. But he can’t think of that right now.

The train is about to dip to the ground. Stiles shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. He is determined to land on his feet.

Just before he jumps, someone shoves his shoulder, and he almost topples out of the train car. He doesn’t look back to see who it is—probably Kali, but it doesn’t matter. Before they can try it again, he jumps. This time he is ready for the momentum the train gives him, and he runs a few steps to diffuse it but keeps his balance. Fierce pleasure courses through him and he smiles. It’s a small accomplishment, but it makes him feel Valiant.

One of the Valiant-born initiates touches Hale’s shoulder and asks, “When your team won, where did you put the flag?”

“Telling you wouldn’t really be in the spirit of the exercise, Jennifer,” he says coolly.

“Come on, Hale,” she whines. She gives him a flirtatious smile. He brushes her hand off his arm, and for some reason, Stiles finds himself grinning.

“The Pier,” another Valiant-born initiate calls out. He's tall, with dark-hair and dark eyes, with dark clothes on. Handsome. “Boyd was on the winning team. They kept the flag at the carousel.”

“Let’s go there, then,” suggests Scott.

No one objects, so they all walk east, toward the marsh that was once a lake.

They walk across the bridge. They still need the bridges because the mud beneath them is too wet to walk on. Stiles wonders how long it’s been since the river dried up.

Once they cross the bridge, the city changes. Behind them, most of the buildings were in use, and even if they weren’t, they looked well-tended. In front of them is a sea of crumbling concrete and broken glass. The silence of this part of the city is eerie; it feels like a nightmare. It’s hard to see where their going, because it’s after midnight and all the city lights are off.

A tall blonde with bright red lipstick takes out a glowing orb and shines it at the street in front of them.

“Scared of the dark, Erica?” the dark-eyed Valiant-born initiate teases.

“If you want to step on broken glass, Danny, be my guest,” she snaps. But she waves her hand in front of it anyway to turn it off.

Stiles has realized that part of being Valiant is being willing to make things more difficult for oneself in order to be self-sufficient. There’s nothing especially brave about wandering dark streets with no light, but they're not supposed to need help, even from light. They're supposed to be capable of anything.

Stiles likes that. Because there might come a day when there is no glowing light, there is no gun, there is no guiding hand. And he wants to be ready for it.

The buildings end just before the marsh. A strip of land juts out into the marsh, and rising from it is a giant white wheel with dozens of red passenger cars dangling from it at regular intervals. The Ferris wheel.

“Think about it. People used to ride that thing. For fun,” says Scott, shaking his head.

“They must have been Valiant,” Stiles replies.

“Yeah, but a lame version of Valiant.” Allison laughs. “A Valiant Ferris wheel wouldn’t have cars. You would just hang on tight with your hands, and good luck to you.”

They walk down the side of the pier. All the buildings on Stiles’s left are empty, their signs torn down and their windows closed, but it is a clean kind of emptiness. Whoever left these places left them by choice and at their leisure. Some places in the city are not like that.

“Dare you to jump into the marsh,” Scott says to him, and Stiles laughs.

“You first.”

They reach the carousel, and some of the horses are scratched and weathered, their tails broken off or their saddles chipped. Hale takes a light out of his pocket.

“In ten minutes, the other team will pick their location,” he says. “I suggest you take this time to formulate a strategy. We may not be Tutelage, but mental preparedness is one aspect of your Valiant training. Arguably, it is the most important aspect.”

He's right about that. _What good is a prepared body if you have a scattered mind?_

Scott looks at Allison, then back at Hale.

“Some people should stay here and guard her, and some people should go out and scout the other team’s location,” he says.

“Yeah? You think?” Jennifer says, playing with a strand of Allison’s hair, who gives her a nasty look and yanks her hair away. “Who put you in charge, transfer?”

“No one,” says Scott. “But someone’s got to do it.”

“Maybe we should develop a more defensive strategy. Wait for them to come to us, then take them out,” suggests Isaac.

“That’s the sissy way out,” Danny says. “I vote we go all out. Hide Allison well enough that they can’t find her.”

Everyone bursts into the conversation at once, their voices louder with each passing second. Isaac defends Scott’s plan; the Valiant-born initiates vote for offense; everyone argues about who should make the decision. Hale sits down on the edge of the carousel, leaning against a plastic horse’s foot. His eyes lift to the sky, where there are no stars, only the round moon peeking through a thin layer of clouds. The muscles in his arms are relaxed; his hand rests on the back of his neck. He looks almost comfortable, holding that gun to his shoulder.

Stiles closes his eyes briefly. Why does Hale distract him so easily? He needs to focus.

What would he say if he could shout above the sniping behind him? They can’t act until they know where the other team is. They could be anywhere within a two-mile radius, although he can rule out the empty marsh as an option. The best way to find them is not to argue about how to search for them, or how many to send out in a search party.

It’s to climb as high as possible.

He looks over his shoulder to make sure no one is watching. None of them look at him, even Scott is busy, so he walks toward the Ferris wheel with light, quiet footsteps, pressing his gun to his back with one hand to keep it from making noise.

When he stares up at the Ferris wheel from the ground, his throat feels tighter. It's taller than he thought, so tall he can barely see the cars swinging at the top. The only good thing about its height is that it is built to support weight. If he climbs it, it won’t collapse beneath him.

His heart pumps faster. Will he really risk his life for this—to win a game the Valiant like to play?

It’s so dark he can barely see them, but when he stares at the huge, rusted supports holding the wheel in place, he see the rungs of a ladder. Each support is only as wide as his shoulders, and there are no railings to hold him in, but climbing a ladder is better than climbing the spokes of the wheel.

He grabs a rung. It’s rusty and thin and feels like it might crumble in his hands. He puts his weight on the lowest rung to test it and jumps to make sure it will hold him up. The movement hurts his bruised ribs, and he winces.

“Stiles.” A low voice says behind him. He doesn’t know why it doesn’t startle him. Maybe because he is becoming more Valiant, and mental readiness is something he is supposed to develop. Maybe because his voice is low and smooth and almost soothing. Whatever the reason, he looks over his shoulder. Hale stands behind him with his gun slung across his back, just like Stiles's.

“Yes?” Stiles asks.

“What they hell are you doing?”

“I’m seeking higher ground,” Stiles replies. “I don’t _think_ I’m doing anything.”

Stiles can see his smile in the dark. “All right. I’m coming.”

He pauses a second. He doesn’t look at Stiles the way the other initiates do—like he is too small and too weak to be of any use, and they pity him for it. But if he insists on coming with Stiles, it is probably because he doubts him.

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. He’s tired of everyone’s pity.

“Undoubtedly,” he replies. Stiles doesn’t hear the sarcasm, but he knows it’s there. “You should take it easy, Stiles. You got stabbed not even twelve hours ago."

Stiles just sets his gun on the ground and begins climbs instead of replying, and when he’s a few feet off the ground, Hale climbs up after him. He moves faster than Stiles does, and soon his hands find the rungs that Stiles’s feet leave.

“So tell me. . .” he says quietly as they climb. He sounds breathless. “What do you think the purpose of this exercise is? The game, I mean, not the climbing.”

Stiles stares down at the pavement. It seems far away now, but he's not even a third of the way up. Above him is a platform, just below the center of the wheel. That’s his destination. He doesn’t even think about how he will climb back down.

“Learning about strategy,” Stiles says. “Teamwork, maybe.”

“Teamwork,” he repeats. A laugh hitches in his throat. It sounds like a panicked breath.

“Maybe not,” Stiles says, looking back down at Hale. “Teamwork doesn’t seem to be a Valiant priority.”

The wind picks up around Stiles. He presses closer to the white support so he doesn’t fall, but that makes it hard to climb. Below him, the carousel looks small. He can barely see the rest of his team under the awning. Some of them are missing—a search party must have left.

Hale breaks through the wind, says, “It’s supposed to be a priority. It used to be.”

But Stiles isn't really listening, because the height is dizzying. His hands ache from holding the rungs, and his legs are shaking, but he’s not really sure why. It isn’t the height that scares him—the height makes him feel alive with energy, every organ and vessel and muscle in his body singing at the same pitch.

Then Stiles realizes what it is. It’s Hale. Something about him makes Stiles feel like he is about to fall. Or turn to liquid. Or burst into flames. Whichever come first.

His hand almost misses the next rung.

“Now tell me. . .” he says through a bursting breath, “what do you think learning strategy has to do with. . . bravery?”

The question shocks Stiles, like someone has dumped ice cold water over his body. He remembers that Hale is his instructor, and he is supposed to learn something from this. A cloud passes over the moon, and the light shifts across his hands, and he takes the opportunity to steady himself.

“It. . .it prepares you to act,” He says finally. “You learn strategy so you can use it.” Stiles can hear Hale breathing behind him, loud and fast. “Are you alright, Hale?”

“Are you sure you’re actually human, Stiles? Being up this high. . .” He gulps for air. “It doesn’t scare you at all?”

Stiles looks over his shoulder at the ground. If he falls now, he will die. But he doesn’t think he will fall. He turns back to Hale, ready for a reply, but a gust of air presses against his left side, throwing his body weight to the right. He gasps and cling to the rungs, his balance shifting. Hale’s cold hand clamps around one of his hips, one of his fingers finding a strip of bare skin just under the hem of Stiles's t-shirt. He squeezes, steadying him and pushing him gently to the left, restoring his balance.

Now he really can’t breathe. He pauses, staring at his hands, his mouth dry. He feels the ghost of where Hale’s hand was, his fingers long and narrow. “You okay?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” Stiles says, his voice strained.

Stiles keeps climbing, silently, until he reaches the platform. Judging by the blunted ends of metal rods, it used to have railings, but it doesn’t anymore. He sits down and scoots to the end of it so Hale has somewhere to sit. Without thinking, Stiles put his legs over the side. Hale, however, crouches and presses his back to the metal support, breathing heavily.

“You’re afraid of heights,” Stiles says. “I didn’t think you were afraid of anything."

“Everyone’s afraid of something.” Hale replies, still breathing heavily.

“How do you survive in the Valiant compound?”

“I ignore my fear,” he says. “When I make decisions, I pretend it doesn’t exist.”

Stiles stares at him for a second. He can’t help it. To him, there’s a difference between not being afraid and acting in spite of fear, as he does.

Stiles realizes a second too late that he has been staring at him too long.

“What?” he says quietly.

“Nothing.”

Stiles looks away from him and toward the city. He has to focus. He climbed up here for a reason.

The city is pitch-black, but even if it wasn’t, Stiles wouldn’t be able to see very far. A building stands in his way.

“We’re not high enough,” he says. He looks up. Above him is a tangle of white bars, the wheel’s scaffolding. If he climbs carefully, he can wedge his feet between the supports and the crossbars and stay secure. Or as secure as possible.

“I’m going to climb,” Stiles says, standing up. He grabs one of the bars above his head and pulls himself up. Shooting pains go through his bruised sides and the wound above his heart, but he ignores them.

“This is high enough.” Hale says, placing his arms out like he’s prepared to catch Stiles if he falls.

“No, we need to go higher."

“For God’s sake, Stiles,” he says, sounding breathless again.

“You don’t have to follow me,” Stiles says, staring at the maze of bars above him. He shoves his foot onto the place where two bars cross and pushes himself up, grabbing another bar in the process. He sways for a second, his heart beating so hard he can’t feel anything else, and he thinks he hears Hale hold his breath. Every thought he has condenses into one heartbeat, moving at the same rhythm.

“Yes, I do,” Hale says, breaking the silence.

This is crazy, and he knows it. A fraction of an inch of mistake, half a second of hesitation, and Stiles's life is over. Heat tears through his chest, right where the wound is, and he smiles as he grabs the next bar. He pulls himself up, his arms shaking, and forces his leg under him so he's standing on another bar. When he feels steady, he looks down at Hale to see if he’s okay, but instead of seeing him, he sees straight to the ground.

Stiles can’t breathe.

He imagines his body plummeting, smacking into the bars as it falls down, and his limbs at broken angles on the pavement. Hale grabs a bar with each hand and pulls himself up, easy, like he’s sitting up in bed. But he is not comfortable or natural here—every muscle in his arm stands out. It is a stupid thing for Stiles to think when he is one hundred feet off the ground.

He grabs another bar, finds another place to wedge his foot. When he looks at the city again, the building isn’t in his way. He's high enough to see the skyline. Most of the buildings are black against a navy sky, but the red lights at the top of some buildings are lit up. They blink half as fast as Stiles's heartbeat.

Beneath the buildings, the streets look like tunnels. For a few seconds, Stiles sees only a dark blanket over the land in front of him, just faint differences between buildings and sky and street and ground. Then he sees Lydia, standing on the ground, smirking at him as she waves at him.

“See?” He says, pointing at her.

Hale stops climbing when he’s right behind him and looks over Stiles’s shoulder, his chin next to Stiles’s head. His breaths flutter against his ear, and he feels shaky again, like he did when he was climbing the ladder.

“Yeah,” he says. A smile spreads over his face.

“She’s at the park at the end of the pier,” he says. “Figures. It’s surrounded by open space, but the trees provide some camouflage. Obviously not enough.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He looks over his shoulder at him. They are so close he forgets where he is; instead, he notices the corners of Hale's mouth and how they turn down naturally, just like Stiles's, and that he has a scar over his eyebrow. It must have been very painful, for his body not to heal it like Stiles knows werewolf bodies do.

“Um,” He says. He has to clear his throat. “Start climbing down. I’ll follow you.”

Hale nods and steps down. His leg is so long that he finds a place for his foot easily and guides his body between the bars. Even in darkness, Stiles sees that his hands are bright red and shaking.

Stiles steps down with one foot, pressing his weight into one of the crossbars. The bar creaks beneath him and comes loose, clattering against half a dozen bars on the way down and bouncing on the pavement. He’s dangling from the scaffolding with his feet swinging in midair. A strangled gasp escapes him.

“Hale!”

He tries to find another place to put his foot, but the nearest foothold is a few feet away, farther than Stiles can stretch. His hands are sweaty. He remembers wiping them on his pants before the Choosing, before the aptitude test, before every important moment, and suppresses a scream. He’s going to slip. He will literally fall to his death.

“Hold on!” Hale shouts. “Just hold on, I have an idea.”

He keeps climbing down. He’s moving in the wrong direction; he should be coming towards Stiles, not going away from him. Stiles stares at his hands, which are wrapped around the narrow bar so tightly his knuckles are white. His fingers are dark red, almost purple. They won’t last long.

 _He_ won’t last long.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Better not to look. Better to pretend that none of this exists. He hears Hale’s boots squeak against metal and rapid footsteps on ladder rungs.

“Hale!” he yells again. Maybe he left. Maybe he abandoned Stiles. Maybe this is a test of his strength, of his bravery. He breathes in through his nose and out of his mouth. He counts his breaths to calm himself down. One, two. In, out. _Come on, Hale_ , is all he can think. _Come on, do something._

Then he’s suddenly being ripped from the bar. For a second, he thinks that he’s voluntary let go, but the arms around him say otherwise. Hale is holding him against his broad chest, and they are literally hurdling towards the ground.

Air wraps around Stiles's ankles and wrists as the wind gushes up, like a geyser. He opens his eyes, only to see Hale’s red ones staring back at him. He can’t help but laugh, giddy with hysteria as the ground comes closer and closer.

Every muscle in his body tenses as they hurtle toward the ground. When he can see the cracks in the sidewalk, he feels like he’s going to drop, but Hale is there to somewhat break that fall, and his body slams into the ground, feet first. His legs collapse beneath him and he pulls his arms in, rolling as fast as he can to the side. The cement scrapes some places on his chest where his shirt has ridden up, but other than that, he’s okay.

He’s _safe._

He presses his palms to his face. He doesn’t try to get up. If he did, he’s halfway sure he would just fall back down. He hears footsteps, and Hale’s hands wrap around his wrists. Stiles lets him pry his hands from his eyes.

Hale encloses one of Stiles's hands perfectly between two of his. The warmth of his skin overwhelms the ache in his fingers from holding the bars.

“You alright?” he asks, pressing their hands together.

“Yeah.”

Hale starts to laugh.

After a second, Stiles laughs too. With his free hand, he pushes himself into a sitting position. He is aware of how little space there is between him and Hale—six inches at most. That space feels charged with electricity. Stiles feels like it should be smaller.

Hale stands, pulling Stiles up with him. The wheel is still creaking, creating a wind that ruffles his hair back.

“You could have told me you were planning to use your werewolf power. I probably wouldn’t have freaked out as much.” Stiles says. He tries to sound casual. “I probably shouldn’t have climbed up there anyways.”

“I would have, if I had known,” he says. “Couldn’t just let you hang there, so I took a risk. Come on, time to get Lydia back.”

Hale hesitates for a moment and then takes Stiles's arm, his fingertips pressing to the inside of his elbow. In other sectors, he would give Stiles time to recover, but he's Valiant and a werewolf who heals quickly, so he smiles at him instead and starts toward the carousel, where their team members guard Allison. Stiles half runs, half limps beside him. He still feels weak, his wound pulling at his chest, but his mind is awake, especially with Hale's hand on him.

Scott is perched on one of the horses, his long legs crossed and his hand around the pole holding the plastic animal upright. Allison is behind him, standing there like she would rather be somewhere else. She wasn’t given a gun, and Stiles supposes that probably upsets her. He would be upset too if people were shooting at him and he didn’t have a way to defend himself. But Allison has claws, and Stiles doesn’t, so he guesses she’ll be just fine.

Three Valiant-born initiates stand among the other worn and dirty animals. One of them has his hand on a horse’s head, and a scratched horse eye stares at Stiles between his fingers. Sitting on the edge of the carousel is a the blonde-hair girl, Erica, scratching at her lipstick with her thumb.

“Where’d the others go?” asks Hale.

He looks as excited as Stiles feels, his eyes wide with energy.

“Did you guys almost fall from the wheel?” Erica asks. “What the hell are you thinking? You both could have died. And then who would I pick on then?” She shakes her head, but the last part is clearly aimed at Hale, judging by the smirk she gives him. “If I lose again this year, the shame will be unbearable. Three years in a row?”

“The wheel doesn’t matter,” Hale says. “We know where they are. And I’d finally get some peace and quiet from you."

“Oh, Der. Where’s the fun in that?” Erica asks, mock pouting.

“We?” Scott pipes in, looking from Hale to Stiles before giving Stiles a pointed look.

“Yes, while the rest of you were twiddling your thumbs, Stiles climbed the Ferris wheel to look for the other team,” he says.

“What do we do now, then?” asks one of the Valiant-born initiates, Danny, through a yawn.

Hale looks at Stiles, an expectant look in his eyes. Slowly, the eyes of the other initiates, including the Valiant-born, migrate from him to Stiles. He tenses his shoulders, about to shrug and say he doesn’t know, and then an image of the pier stretching out beneath him comes into his mind. He has an idea.

“Split in half,” Stiles says. “Four of us go to the right side of the pier, three to the left. The other team is in the park at the end of the pier, so the group of four will charge as the group of three sneaks behind the other team to Lydia.”

Scott looks at Stiles with pride, like he is just now noticing how strong Stiles is. Stiles doesn’t blame him for it though. Scott was always the strong one in their duo. Now it’s the both of them.

“Sounds good,” says Danny, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get this night over with, shall we?”

Scott joins him in the group going to the right, along with Erica, who's smile looks white against her bright lipstick.  He didn’t notice before, but she has a tattoo of the Valiant sign behind her ear. He stares at it curling around her earlobe for a moment, but then they all start running so Stiles looks away, following.

He has to run twice as fast to match his weak strides to the rest of his group’s strong ones. As he runs, he realizes that only one of them will get to actually claim they rescued Lydia  and it won’t matter that it was his plan and his information that got them to it if he's not the one who saves her. Though he can hardly breathe as it is with the pain dragging through his chest and his legs, he runs faster, and he’s on Erica’s heels. He pulls his gun around his body, holding his finger over the trigger.

They reach the end of the pier, and he clamps his mouth shut to keep his loud breaths in. They slow down so their footsteps aren’t as loud, and Stiles looks for Lydia again. Now that he's on the ground, she’s easier to see. He points, and Scott nods, leading the way towards it.

Then Stiles hears a chorus of yells, so loud they make him jump. He hears puffs of air as darts go flying and stick as they find their targets. His team has charged, the other team running to meet them, and Lydia is almost completely unguarded. Stiles notices that she looks extremely bored, and can’t help but to smirk. Danny takes aim and shoots the last guard in the thigh. The guard, a short girl with purple hair, groans at the impact and throws her gun to the ground in a tantrum.

Stiles sprints to catch up to Scott. Lydia is standing under a tree with her arms crossed, smiling when she catches sight of Stiles and Scott.

“Come on, guys, I’m really tired of being eyed up by these pervs,” she says. “This is so not fun anymore.”

She gives Stiles a patronizing look, the way people sometimes look at children when they act too adult, and flips her hair over her shoulder. Stiles and Scott both rush over to her and Scott picks her up, swinging her around before putting her back down. Their laughs echo in the air, and Lydia stands in between Scott and Stiles, arms around their shoulders as they all laugh, drawing the attention of the two teams. Danny’s voice joins their laughs, and Stiles hears a chorus of yells in the distance.

Danny claps his shoulder, and he smiles at him as Danny ruffles his hair.

The shouts of triumph become infectious, and Stiles lifts his head to join back in, running toward his teammates. He’s got an arm around Lydia’s waist, and everyone clusters around them, grabbing Lydia to lift her high in the air. Stiles laughs along with her, standing off to the side, grinning.

A hand touches his shoulder. “Well done,” Hale says quietly, and Stiles can feel his heart swell.

 

“I can’t believe I missed it!” Allison says again, shaking her head. Wind coming through the doorway of the train car blows her hair in every direction.

“You were performing the very important job of staying out of our way,” says Scott, beaming.

Allison groans. “Why did I have to be the damsel? I really wanted to shoot someone.”

“Because life’s not fair, Allison. And the world is conspiring against you,” says Lydia. “Hey, can you believe that Stiles climbed that Ferris wheel?”

Kali, Aiden, and Ethan sit across from the members in the corner. Their chests and backs are splattered with holes from the darts, and they look dejected and murderous. They speak quietly, sneaking looks at the rest of Stiles's group, especially Stiles. That is the con of being the one to end the game—he’s everyone’s target. Or at least, no more than usual.

“So you climbed the Ferris wheel, huh,” says Danny. He stumbles across the car and sits next to Stiles. Erica, the girl with the red lipstick, follows him.

“Yes,” Stiles says.

“Pretty smart of you. Like. . .Tutelage smart,” Erica says. “I don’t think I’ve introduced myself. I’m Erica.”

“Stiles,” he says. At home, being compared to a Tutelage would be an insult, but she says it like a compliment.

“Yeah, I know who you are,” she says. “The first jumper tends to stick in your head.”

It feels like it’s been years since he jumped off a building in his Idem clothes; it has been decades.

Danny takes one of the darts from his gun and squeezes it between his thumb and index finger. The train lurches to the left, and Danny falls against him, his fingers pinching the dart until a stream of green, foul-smelling venom sprays on his face.

Erica collapses in giggles. He wipes some of the venom from his face, slowly, and then smears it on Danny's cheek. The scent of fish oil wafts through the train car.

“Ugh!” Stiles says, smirking, “You could have paralyzed me, you jerk.” Danny squeezes the ball at him again, but the opening is at the wrong angle, and the venom sprays onto his face instead. He coughs and makes exaggerated gagging sounds.

“You’ll be fine. At least I didn’t stab you with it, then you really would have had a problem, human.” Danny chuckles, flashing gold eyes at him.

Stiles wipe his face with his sleeve, laughing so hard his stomach hurts.

If his life could always be like this, loud laughter and bold action and the kind of exhaustion one feels after a hard but satisfying day, he’ll be content. As Danny scrapes his face with his fingertips, he realizes that all he has to do is get through initiation, and that life will be his.

“Want to get out of here?” Danny asks suddenly, and Stiles looks into his deep eyes.

“What?” He asks. “Off the train?”

“No, you idiot. When the train stops. We’re doing this thing tonight.”

“What is it?” Stiles asks cautiously. He looks over Danny’s shoulder and sees Hale looking at him, so he looks back to Danny quickly.

“To a little initiation ritual,” he says, shrugging. “Right after the train stops."

Stiles briefly considers his options. He can sit back in their rooms, on his bed, and do nothing. Or he can leave the Valiant compound.

He nods, shrugging like Danny, “Sure.”

“Cool.” Danny says, smiling at him. Stiles feels his cheeks heat up slightly. Besides Hale and Scott, no boys have ever really talked to Stiles. Sure, he had that thing with Heather, but that was back when he couldn’t figure out what he wanted, and Stiles is pretty certain that he doesn't want anything to do with girl’s anatomy anymore.

They ride in silence a little after that, Stiles going to sit down on the ground when he feels like his legs are going to fall off, occasionally glancing up once in awhile to see Hale’s eyes already on him. Stiles looks away each time, too scared to hold his gaze for longer.

When the train nears the compound, everyone piles out quickly, and the Valiant-born all share a look with Danny before they jump off, jogging.

“Come one, let’s go.” Stiles pushes himself to his feet and gets ready to jump. He sees Scott give him a questioning look, but Stiles just smiles back at him and gives him a thumbs up. He jumps off the train and jogs next to Danny to catch up to the Valiant-born initiates when Scott just nods.

“The only initiates they usually let come are ones with older siblings in Valiant,” he says. “But they might not even notice. Just act like you belong.”

“What exactly are we doing?”

“Something dangerous,” he says. A look Stiles can only describe as Valiant mania enters his eyes, but rather than recoil from it, as he might have a few weeks ago, he catches it, like it’s contagious. Excitement replaces the leaden feeling inside him. They both slow when they reach the Valiant-born initiates.

“What’s the human doing here?” asks a boy with a metal ring between his nostrils.

“He was just stabbed in the chest just this morning, Ken,” Danny says. “ And almost kicked out of Valiant. Give him a break, okay?”

Ken shrugs and turns away. No one else says anything, though a few of them give Stiles sidelong glances like they’re sizing him up. The Valiant-born initiates are like a pack of dogs. If he acts the wrong way, they won’t let him run with them. But for now, Stiles thinks he's safe.

They turn another corner, and a group of members stands at the end of the next hallway. There are too many of them to all be related to a Valiant-born initiate, but Stiles sees some similarities among their faces, people he has seen milling around in the Hole.

“Let’s go,” one of the members says. He turns and plunges through a dark doorway. The other members follow him, and everyone else follows them as well. Stiles stays close behind Danny as he passes into darkness and his foot hits a step. He catches himself before falling forward and starts to climb.

“Back staircase,” Danny says, almost mumbling. “Usually locked.”

Stiles nods, though Danny can’t see him, and climbs until all the steps are gone. By then, a door at the top of the staircase is open, letting in moonlight. They emerge from the ground a few hundred yards from the glass building above the Hole, close to the train tracks they just got off from. Another track for them to get on.

Stiles feels like he has done this a thousand times before. He hears the train horn, feels the vibrations in the ground, sees the light attached to the head car. He cracks his knuckles and bounces once on his toes.

They jog in a single pack next to the car, and in waves, members and initiates alike pile into the car. Danny gets in before him, and people press behind him.He can’t make any mistakes; he throws himself sideways, grabbing the handle on the side of the car, and hoists his body into the car. Danny grabs his arm to steady him, and Stiles feels his chest throb over his stab wound.

The train picks up its speed. Danny and Stiles sit against one of the walls, like they did in the other train. Stiles shouts over the wind, “Where are we going?”

Danny shrugs. “Boyd never told me.”

“Boyd?”

“Erica’s boyfriend,” he says. He points across the room at a boy sitting in the doorway with his legs dangling out of the car. He is dark skinned and broad, tall.

“You don’t get to know. That ruins the surprise!” Erica shouts next to his left. She gives him a wide smile.

“You know, Hale told me about you.” Erica says, and Stiles prays the heat in his cheeks isn’t visible.

“Oh? What did he say?” He tries to sound casual, but doubts it comes across as anything but curios.

Erica smirks at him, like she knows something he doesn't. “He said you were a human. Why do you ask?”

“If my instructor is talking about me,” Stiles says, as firmly as he can, even though he can hear his heart in his ears, “I want to know what he’s saying.” Stiles hopes he tells a convincing lie. “He isn’t coming, is he?”

“No. He never comes to this,” she says. “It’s probably lost its appeal. Not much scares him, you know.”

He isn’t coming. Something in Stiles deflates like an untied balloon. He ignores it and nods. He knows that Hale isn’t a coward. But he also knows that at least one thing does scare him: heights. Whatever they’re doing, it must involve being high up for him to avoid it. She must not know that if she speaks of him with such reverence in her voice.

“Do you know him well?” Stiles asks. He’s being too curious; he always has been.

“Everyone knows Hale,” she says. “We used to train together. I was bad at fighting, 'cause of my seizures, so he taught me every night after everyone was asleep.” She scratches the back of her neck, her expression suddenly serious. “Nice of him. You know, to help me like that."

She gets up and stands behind the members sitting in the doorway. In a second, her serious expression is gone, but Stiles still feels rattled by what she said, half confused by the idea of Hale being “nice” and half wanting to punch her for no apparent reason, even though he knows she’s with Boyd.

“Here we go!” shouts Boyd. The train doesn’t slow down, but he throws himself out of the car. The other members follow him, a stream of black-clothed, pierced people not much older than his is. He stands in the doorway next to Danny. The train is going much faster than it has every other time he's jumped, but he can’t lose his nerve now, not with everything that has happened today, not in front of all these members. So he jumps, hitting the ground hard and stumbling forward a few steps before he regains his balance.

He and Danny jog to catch up to the members, along with the other initiates, who barely look in Stiles’s direction.

He looks around as he walks. The compound is behind them, black against the clouds, but the buildings around him are dark and silent. That means they must be north of the bridge, unlike where they were not even an hour ago, where the city is abandoned.

They turn a corner and spread out as they walk down a street. South of the bridge, everything is busy, bustling with people, but here, it’s bare.

As soon as Stiles lifts his eyes to scan the buildings, he knows where they’re going: an empty building, a black pillar with crisscrossed girders, the tallest building north of the bridge.

But what are they going to do? Climb it?

As they all get closer, the members start to run, and Stiles and Danny sprint to catch them. Jostling one another with their elbows, they push through a set of doors at the building’s base. The glass in one of them is broken, so it is just a frame. Stiles steps through it instead of opening it and follows the members through an eerie, dark entryway, crunching broken glass beneath his feet.

He expects them to go up the stairs, but everyone stops at the elevator bank.

“Do the elevators work?” Stiles asks Danny quietly.

“Sure they do,” says Boyd, rolling his eyes. “You think I’m stupid enough not to come here early and turn on the emergency generator?”

“Yeah,” says Danny. “I kinda do.”

Boyd glares at him, then puts him in a headlock and rubs his knuckles into Danny’s skull. Danny smacks him in the side, and he lets go.

Stiles grins at the sight of Danny’s disheveled hair, and the elevator doors open. They pile in, members in one and initiates in the other. A girl with a shaved head stomps on his toes on the way in and doesn’t apologize. Stiles just looks at her.

“What floor?” the girl with the shaved head says.

“One hundred,” Stiles says, in an obvious undertone.

“How would you know that?”

“Jane, come on,” says Danny. “Be nice.”

“We’re in a one-hundred-story abandoned building with some Valiant,” Stiles retorts, his sarcasm coming out. “Why don’t you know that?”

She doesn’t respond. She just jams her thumb into the right button.

The elevator zooms upward so fast Stiles’s stomach sinks and his ears pop. He grabs a railing at the side of the elevator, watching the numbers climb. They pass twenty, and thirty, and Danny’s hair is finally smooth. Fifty, sixty, and Stiles's toes are done throbbing. Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, and the elevator comes to a stop at one hundred. Stiles is really glad they didn’t take the stairs.

“I wonder how we’ll get to the roof from. . .” Danny’s voice trails off.

A strong wind hits Stiles then, pushing his hair back. There is a gaping hole in the ceiling of the hundredth floor. Boyd props an aluminum ladder against its edge and starts to climb. The ladder creaks and sways beneath his feet, but he keeps climbing, whistling as he does. When he reaches the roof, he turns around and holds the top of the ladder for the next person.

Part of him wonders if this is a suicide mission disguised as a game.

It isn’t the first time Stiles has wondered that since the Choosing.

He climbs the ladder after Danny, regardless. It reminds him of climbing the rungs on the Ferris wheel with Hale close at his heels. He remembers Hale's fingers on his hip again, how they kept him from falling, and he almost misses a step on the ladder. Stupid.

Biting his lip, he makes it to the top and stands on the roof of the building.

The wind is so powerful he hears and feels nothing else. He has to lean against Danny to keep from falling over. At first, all he sees is the marsh, wide and brown and everywhere, touching the horizon, devoid of life. In the other direction is the city, and in many ways it is the same, lifeless and with limits he doesn’t know.

Danny points to something. Attached to one of the poles on top of the tower is a steel cable as thick as Stiles’s wrist. On the ground is a pile of black slings made of tough fabric, large enough to hold a human being. Boyd grabs one and attaches it to a pulley that hangs from the steel cable.

Stiles follows the cable down, over the cluster of buildings and doesn’t know where it ends. One thing is clear, though: If he goes through with this, he’ll find out.

They’re literally going to slide down a steel cable in a black sling from one thousand feet up.

“Oh my God,” says Danny.

All he can do is nod.

Erica is the first person to get in the sling. She wriggles forward on her stomach until most of her body is supported by black fabric. Then Boyd pulls a strap across her shoulders, the small of her back, and the top of her thighs, before hitting her lightly on the ass. She laughs at that, and Stiles looks away, a blush on his cheek. He isn’t used to seeing that sort of stuff, but it doesn’t seem to bug anyone else. Boyd pulls her, in the sling, to the edge of the building and counts down from five. Erica gives a thumbs-up as he shoves her forward, into nothingness.

Stiles gasps as Erica hurtles toward the ground at a steep incline, headfirst. He has to push past some of the others to see better. Erica stays secure in the sling for as long as he can see her, and then she’s too far away, just a black speck over the buildings.

The members whoop and pump their fists and form a line, sometimes shoving one another out of the way to get a better place. Somehow Stiles is the first initiate in line, right in front of Danny. Only seven people stand between him and the zip line.

Still, there is a part of him that groans, he has to wait for seven people? It is a strange blend of terror and eagerness, unfamiliar until now.

The next member, a young-looking boy with hair down to his shoulders, jumps into the sling on his back instead of his stomach. He stretches his arms wide as Boyd shoves him down the steel cable.

None of the members seem at all afraid. They act like they have done this a thousand times before, and maybe they have. But when he looks over his shoulder, he sees that most of the initiates look pale or worried, even if they talk excitedly to one another. What happens between initiation and membership that transforms panic into delight? Or do people just get better at hiding their fear?

Three people in front of him, now. Another sling; a member gets in feet-first and crosses her arms over her chest. Two people. A tall, thick boy jumps up and down like a child before climbing into the sling and lets out a high screech as he disappears, making the girl in front of him laugh. Only one person.

She hops into the sling face-first and keeps her hands in front of her as Boyd tightens her straps. And then it’s Stiles's turn.

He shudders as Boyd hangs his sling from the cable. He tries to climb in, but his wound is stinging against his chest, and his hands are shaking too badly.

“Don’t worry,” Boyd says right next to his ear. He takes his arm and helps him get in, facedown.

The straps tighten around his midsection, and Boyd slides him forward, to the edge of the roof. He stares down the building’s steel girders and black windows, all the way to the cracked sidewalk. He is such a fool for doing this. And a fool for enjoying the feeling of his heart slamming against his sternum and sweat gathering in the lines of his palms.

“Ready, Squatter?” Boyd smirks down at him. “I have to say, I’m impressed that you aren’t screaming and crying right now.”

“I told you,” Danny says. “He’s Valiant through and through. Now get on with it.”

“Careful, Danny, or I might not tighten your straps enough,” Boyd says. He smacks his knee. “And then, splat!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Danny says. “And then Erica would boil you alive. She loves me.”

“Only if she found out.” Boyd tugs on the pulley attached to the steel cable. It holds, which is fortunate, because if it breaks, his death will be swift and certain. He looks down at Stiles and says, “Ready, set, g—”

Before he can finish the word “go,” he releases the sling and Stiles forgets him, forgets Danny, and family, and all the things that could malfunction and lead to his death. He hears metal sliding against metal and feels wind so intense it forces tears into his eyes as he hurtles toward the ground.

He feels like he is without substance, without weight. Ahead of him, the marsh looks huge, it's patches of brown spreading farther than he can see, even up as high as he is. The air is so cold and so fast that it hurts his face. He picks up speed and a shout of exhilaration rises within him, stopped only by the wind that fills his mouth the second his lips part.

He plunges toward the street, which is cracked and patchy and follows perfectly the curve of the marsh. He can imagine, up there, how the marsh looked when it was full of water, like liquid steel as it reflected the color of the sky.

His heart beats so hard it hurts, and he can’t scream and he can’t breathe, but he also feels everything, every vein and every fiber, every bone and every nerve, all awake and buzzing in his body as if charged with electricity. He is pure adrenaline.

The ground grows and bulges beneath him, and he can see the tiny people standing on the pavement below. He should scream, like any rational human being would, but when he opens his mouth again, he just crows with joy. He yells louder, and the figures on the ground pump their fists and yell back, but they are so far away he can barely hear them.

He looks down and the ground smears beneath him, all gray and white and black, glass and pavement and steel. Tendrils of wind, soft as hair, wraps around his fingers and pushes his arms back. He tries to pull his arms to his chest again, but he is not strong enough. The ground grows bigger and bigger.

He doesn’t slow down for another minute at least but sails parallel to the ground, like a bird.

When he slows down, he runs his fingers over his hair. The wind teased it into knots. He hangs about twenty feet above the ground, but that height seems like nothing now. He reaches behind himself and works to undo the straps holding him in. His fingers shake, but he still manages to loosen them. A crowd of members stands below. They grasp one another’s arms, forming a net of limbs beneath him.

There’s a giant ‘X’ painted and illuminated in front of him, and if he doesn’t drop perfectly, he will crush right into it.

In order to get down, he has to trust them to catch him, has to accept that these people are his people, and he is theirs. It is a braver act than sliding down the zip line.

He wriggles forward and falls. He hits their arms hard. Wrist bones and forearms press into his back, and then palms wrap around his arms and pull him to his feet. He doesn’t know which hands hold him and which hands don’t; he sees grins and hears laughter.

“What’d you think?” Erica says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Um. . .” All the members stare at him. They look as windblown as Stiles feels, the frenzy of adrenaline in their eyes and their hair askew.

“When can I go again?” Stiles asks. His smile stretches wide enough to show teeth, and when they laugh, he laughs, carefree like he’s seen his mother do so many times.

He looks toward the building, which is so far from where he stands that he can’t see the people on its roof.

“Look! There he is!” someone says, pointing over Stiles’s shoulder. He follows the pointed finger toward a small dark shape sliding down the steel wire. A few seconds later he hears a loud laugh, and sees it’s Danny.

“His arms are flailing!” Erica says, laughing.

“He sounds like a strangled cat,” Stiles says. Everyone laughs again. He feels a twinge of guilt for teasing Danny when he can’t hear him do it, but he would have said the same thing if Danny  were standing here. He thinks.

When Danny finally comes to a stop, he follows the members to meet him. They line up beneath him and thrust their arms into the space between them. Erica clamps a hand around his elbow. He grabs another arm—not really sure who it belongs to, there are too many tangled hands—and looks up at her.

“Pretty sure we can’t call you ‘Squatter’ anymore,” Erica says. She nods. “Stiles.”

Stiles smiles at her, and something in his chest unclenches.

This is the first time he has felt like he needs to be one of them, like he needs to belong.

Which means he needs to pass the next step of initiation.


	3. Chapter 3

Before Stiles can think of passing the second stage of initiation, Visiting Day arrives.

Everyone in their room dresses in silence. Not even Scott smiles. They all know that they might go to the Hole floor and search every face and never find one that belongs to them.

Stiles makes his bed with the tight corners. He’s never had one, so he’s going to make sure he takes care of it. As he pinches a stray hair from his pillow, Deucalion walks in.

“Attention!” he announces, hands gripping his cane. “I want to give you some advice about today. If by some miracle your families do come to visit you. . .” He smirks. “. . .which I doubt, it is best not to seem too attached. That will make it easier for you, and easier for them. We also take the phrase ’sector before servitude’ very seriously here. Attachment to your family suggests you aren’t entirely pleased with your sector, which would be shameful. Understand?”

Stiles understands. He hears the threat in Deucalion’s sharp voice. The only part of the speech that Deucalion meant was the last part: They're Valiant, and they need to act accordingly.

On his way out of the dormitory, Deucalion stops him.

“I may have underestimated you, human,” he says. “You did well last week, even after I practically kicked you out.” Stiles stares up at him. For the first time since he got back from zip lining, dread pinches his stomach. If Deucalion thinks he did something right, he must have done it wrong.

“Thank you,” is all he says, slipping out of the room.

Once his eyes adjust to the dim hallway light, he sees Scott and Allison ahead of him, Allison laughing, probably at a dumb joke Scott made. He doesn’t try to catch up, just stand back and smirks. He new something was going to eventually happen, and he feels like it would be a mistake to interrupt them.

He sees that Isaac is missing. He didn’t see him in the room, and he’s not walking toward the Hole now. Maybe he’s already there.

Stiles runs his fingers through his hair and smooths it up. He checks his clothes—does he looks well enough? He knows the dark circles have disappeared from under his eyes, but he wants to look good in front of his parents.

 _Who cares if they approve?_ Stiles sets his jaw. This is his sector now. These are the clothes his sector wears. He stops just before the hallway ends.

Clusters of families stand on the Hole floor, most of them Valiant families with Valiant-born initiates. They still look strange to Stiles—a mother with a pierced eyebrow, a father with a tattooed arm, an initiate with purple hair, a wholesome family unit. He spots Ethan and Aiden standing alone at one end of the room and suppresses a smile. At least their family didn’t come.

But Kali’s did. She stands next to a tall man with bushy eyebrows and a short, meek-looking woman with red hair. Neither of her parents look like her. They both wear black pants and lighter white blazers, typical Probity outfits, and her father speaks so loudly Stiles can almost hear him from where he stands. Do they know what kind of person their daughter is?

Then again. . .what kind of person is Stiles?

Across the room, Lydia stands with a woman in a blue dress. She doesn’t look old enough to be her mother, but she has the same crease between her eyebrows as Lydia does, and the same red toned hair.

Next to her, Allison hugs a light-skinned woman in Tutelage baby-blue. Standing behind Allison is a man wearing the same colors. Her father.

Then Stiles see them. His mother and father stand alone near the railing with their hands clasped in front of them. They have never looked more out of place, with their gray pants and barely there jacket buttoned at the throat, his mom's hair in its simple twist and her face placid, looking around like she’s scared a supernatural creature is going to jump out and attack them, but his dad remains calm, simply looking out over the room. Stiles starts toward them, his heart in his throat. They came. They came for him, like he knew they would.

He walks faster. His mom sees him first, and for a second her expression is blank, like she doesn’t know who he is. Then her eyes light up, and she opens her arms. She smells like soap and laundry detergent, something Stiles has never smelt on his mother before.

“Stiles,” she whispers. She runs her hand over his hair.

 _Don’t cry,_ he tells himself. He holds her until he can blink the moisture from his eyes, and then pulls back to look at her again. He smiles with closed lips, just like she does. She touches his cheek.

“Well, look at you,” his dad says, looking at Stiles with the same pride in his eyes he had when Stiles left them at the Choosing. “You’ve filled out.” He puts his arm around Stiles’s shoulders. “Tell me how you are, son.”

“You first.” Stiles says, wanting to hear everything they both have to say.

“Today is a special occasion,” his mom says. “We came to see you, so let’s talk mostly about you.”

Stiles smiles at them both, and they all walk toward the railing that overlooks the chasm, glad to be close to each other. The last month has been more affectionless than he realized. He has to take that back though. Hale has been the one to show him affection, whether he realizes it or not. But there is something different about the way his mom’s arms are around his middle.

“Ah.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown.”

Stiles looks down. “It’s only been a month, mom.”

Her eyes travel over his face. “A month too long.”

Stiles smiles at her. God, he missed his mom, missed the way she used to hold him. His dad is standing next to her, just looking at him, like he’s trying to memorize his face.

“I know, mom. I know.” Is all he can say.

He looks over towards Scott, sees him and Melissa hugging, and smiles. “How have you guys been?”

“Eh, the usual. A couple of Tutelage snobs keep sniffing around the houses. They keep talking about hunting, but we’re not sure what.” His dad replies, his eyebrows raised. Apparently, his dad can’t be in Probity either, like Stiles, because Stiles knows immediately he’s lying.

“That’s terrible,” Stiles says, giving his dad a look. His dad just shakes his head instead, and Stiles lets it drop. They’ll probably talk about it later. He looks toward the chasm.

Standing alone at the railing is Hale. Though he’s not an initiate anymore, most of the Valiant use this day to come together with their families. Either his family doesn’t like to come together, or he wasn’t originally Valiant, which Stiles already knows. Which sector could he have come from?

“There’s one of my instructors.” Stiles leans closer to them and says, “He’s kind of intimidating.”

“He’s handsome,” His mother says, looking at Stiles with a look on her face, like she knows Stiles thinks the same.

He finds himself nodding without thinking. She laughs and lifts her arms from around his waist. Stiles wants to steer her away from Hale, knows what’s coming, but just as he’s about to suggest that they go somewhere else, Hale looks over his shoulder.

His eyes widen at the sight of Stiles’s parents. His mother offers him her hand.

“Hello. My name is Claudia,” she says. “I’m Stiles’s mother.”

He has never seen his mother shake hands with anyone. Let alone someone who isn’t technically a human. Hale eases his hand into hers, looking stiff, and shakes it twice. The gesture looks unnatural for both of them. No, Hale was obviously not originally Valiant, as he’s told them, but Stiles can’t help but wonder where he’s from.

“Hale,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Hale,” Stiles's dad repeats, smiling. “ I assume that's a nickname? How are you?”

“Good, sir.” He says, but doesn’t elaborate. “Your son is doing well here. I’ve been overseeing his training.”

 _Since when does “overseeing” include throwing knives at me and scolding me at every opportunity?_ Stiles thinks.

But then again, he has helped him numerous times, including saving him from falling to his death.

“That’s good to hear,” his dad says. “I know a few things about Valiant initiation, and I was worried about him.”

Hale looks at Stiles, and his eyes move down his face, from nose to mouth to chin. Then he says, “You shouldn’t worry.”

Stiles can’t keep the heat from rushing into his cheeks. He hopes it isn’t noticeable.

Is he just reassuring him because it’s his father, or does he really believe that Stiles is capable? And what did that _look_ mean?

Stiles’s dad tilts his head. “You look familiar for some reason, Hale.”

“I can’t imagine why,” he replies, his voice suddenly cold. “I don’t make a habit of associating with people from Idem.”

His dad just laughs. He has a light laugh, half air and half sound. “Few people do, these days. We don’t take it personally.”

Hale seems to relax a little. “Well, I’ll leave you to your reunion.”

Stiles and his parents watch him leave. The roar of the river fills Stiles's ears. Maybe Hale was one of the Tutelage, which explains why he hates Idem. Or maybe he believes the articles the Tutelage release about them—that they are worthless to society. But that wouldn’t make sense, because although Hale seems to like Stiles, and Stiles likes Hale, he doesn’t really know Hale, but he thinks Hale doesn’t care that he’s the only human. Admires it even. But it was kind of him to tell his parents that he's doing well when Stiles knows he probably doesn’t believe it.

“Is he always like that?” his mom asks.

“Worse.”

“Have you made friends?” his mom asks, a gleam in her eye.

“A few,” Stiles says. He looks over his shoulder at Lydia, Allison and Isaac and their families. When Lydia catches his eye, she beckons to him, smiling, so Stiles and his parents cross the Hole floor.

Before they can get to Lydia and Allison, though, Stiles feels someone grab his arm. He twitches, resisting the urge to smack their hand away. He looks up to so an older man, with eyes as black as the Valiant walls. Stiles remembers him from somewhere, but he can’t recall.

“Well hello again, Stiles.”

Stiles looks around, confused. “Um. . . do I know you?”

“My name is Gerard Argent.” The man says, and a wicked smile grazes his face.

Behind him, Stiles can feel his parents tense, and he sees his dad push his mom behind him out of the corner of his eye.

Stiles tries to act casual, “I’m sorry. I don’t recall meeting you. Allison’s grandfather, is it?”

Gerard grits his teeth, “No granddaughter of mine chooses to be reckless hellion over having the world at her feet at Tutelage. I guess you could send her my regards.” He says, and although it’s addressed to Stiles, Gerard looks over his shoulder, where Stiles assumes Allison is.

“I think I remember you now. You’re the one who was calling our names at the Choosing.” Stiles says, trying to hold back a sneer. He doesn’t like the way Gerard is looking at Allison.

“Correct,” he smirks, “That aptitude test was by far my greatest accomplishment as a scientist.”

"Surely." Stiles bites out, sneering.

“I looked up your test results, Stiles.” He continues, and Stiles holds his breath. "Apparently there was a problem with your test. It was never recorded, and your results had to be reported manually. Did you know that?”

“No.” Stiles hopes he’s convincing enough.

“Did you know that you’re one of two people ever to get an Idem result and switch to Valiant?”

“No,” He says again, biting back his shock. He and someone else are the only ones? But that can’t possibly be true.

His stomach twinges at the thought of it. Right now, he doesn’t care how unique someone else is. He just wants Gerard to go away.

“What made you choose Valiant?” he asks.

“What does this have to do with anything?” He tries to soften his voice, but it doesn’t work. “Aren’t you going to go over to Allison and visit her? Oh, wait. My bad. 'Sector before servitude,’ right?” He pauses. “Come to think of it, why are you talking to me in the first place? Aren’t you supposed to be important or something?”

Maybe that will take him down a few pegs and wipe the smirk from his face.

Gerard's mouth pinches for a second. “Careful, Stiles. Do I need to remind you who you’re talking too?” he asks, leering.

Stiles sets his hands in front of him and clenches his fingers.

“As to the reason for my presence here. . . a quality of my sector is curiosity,” he says, “and while perusing your records, I saw that there was an error with your simulations. It failed to be recorded. Did you know that?”

“How did you access those records? Only the Valiant have access to those now.”

“Because Tutelage developed the simulations, we have an. . . understanding with the Valiant, Stiles.” He tilts his head and smiles at Stiles. “I am merely concerned for the competence of our technology. If it fails while you are around, I have to ensure that it does not continue to do so, you understand?”

“Why were you looking up my records in the first place? Things in Tutelage really that slow that the powerful leader can’t figure to something else to do except peek through stuff he doesn’t deserve to see?” Stiles asks, crossing his arms and trying, and failing, not to outright glare.

Stiles understands only one thing: Gerard is lying to him. He doesn’t care about the technology—he suspects that something is awry with his test results. Just like the the other Tutelage leaders his dad was talking about, he is sniffing around for the Aberrants. And if someone as menacing as Gerard is tight with the Valiant, Stiles bets he isn’t safe there either. But what is so threatening about his ability to manipulate the simulation? Why would it matter to the representative of the Tutelage, of all people?

He can’t answer either question. But the look Gerard gives him reminds him of the look in the wolf’s eyes in the aptitude test—a vicious, predatory stare. He wants to rip Stiles to pieces. He can’t lie down in submission now. He has to become a wolf too.

“Funny one, aren’t you Stiles?”

He feels his pulse in his throat. In order to find out more, he needs to play along. He feels his mom and dad behind him, holding their breaths.

“I don’t know how they work,” Stiles says, “but the liquid I was injected with made me sick to my stomach. Maybe my test administrator was distracted because he was worried I would throw up, and he forgot to record it. ”

“Do you habitually have a sensitive stomach, Stiles?” His voice is like a razor’s edge. He taps his fingernails against his arm.

“Ever since he was young,” he hears his dad reply as smoothly as he can. Stiles has to hold in a smile at that. He knew his parents would have his back through and through. But he can’t seem tense, even though he feels like his insides are writhing within him.

“You have been extremely bad at training so far. I wonder how the rest of your initiation will go.” Gerard says.

“I’m brave,” Stiles says, staring into Gerard’s eyes. The other sectors see the Valiant a certain way. Brash, aggressive, impulsive. Cocky. Stiles should be what Gerard expects. He smirks at him. “I’m going to be the best initiate they’ve got.”

He leans forward, making sure Gerard can hear him clearly. He will have to go further with this to make it convincing.

“You want to know why I chose Valiant?” He asks. “It’s because I was bored.” Further, further. Lies require commitment. “I was tired of being a wussy little do-gooder and I wanted out. Submission isn’t really my thing.”

“So you don’t miss your parents?” he asks delicately, gesturing behind Stiles.

“Do I miss getting told to look away from werewolves who pass downtown? Do I miss being called ’Squatter'?” He shakes his head. “No. I don’t miss any of that. Idem is not my family anymore.”

The lie burns his throat on the way out, or maybe that’s the guilt he’s fighting. He just hopes his parents know the real truth.

“Can I take that to mean. . .” Gerard purses his lips and pauses for a few seconds before finishing. “. . .that you agree with the reports that have been released about Idem? That humans no longer hold their worth? That they could be harboring Aberrants?”

The reports that label his family as worthless? The reports that carry subtle threats and hint at revolution? They make him sick to his stomach. Knowing that Gerard is the one who released them makes Stiles want to strangle him.

Stiles smiles. “Wholeheartedly,”

“Hmm.” Is all Gerard says, before he turns on his heel and walks away, down one of the endless Valiant corridors.

“We need to talk.” His mother says when he is out of earshot. She sounds gentle, but her hand squeezes Stiles's arm so hard he feels her bunt nails.

“Here. Go that way.” His dad says, grabbing Stiles’s other arm and walking. Stiles feels like a rag doll, being dragged every which way. They both walk with him, fast, toward the dining hall. Just before they reach it, though, his dad takes a sharp left turn and walks down one of the dark hallways Stiles didn’t even know existed.

“Dad,” he says. “Dad, how do you know where you’re going?”

His dad stops next to a locked door and stands tall, peering at the base of the black lamp hanging from the ceiling. A few seconds later he nods and turns to Stiles again.

“We said no questions about us. And we meant it. How are you really doing, Stiles?”

“Mom, Dad, I didn’t mean any of that stuff I said. You have to know that.” Stiles says pleadingly.

“Oh, honey. We know.” His mom says, running her hand through his hair. “We know."

His dad turns sharply to him, his arms crossed. He looks deadly serious. "How have the fights been? How are you ranked?”

“Ranked?” Stiles says in disbelief. “You know that I’ve been fighting? You know that I’m ranked?”

“It isn’t top-secret information, how the Valiant initiation process works.”

Stiles doesn’t know how easy it is to find out what another sector does during initiation, but he suspects it’s not that easy. Slowly, he says, “I’m close to the bottom, guys.”

“Good.” His dad nods. “No one looks too closely at the bottom. Now, this is very important, Stiles: What were your aptitude test results?”

Deaton’s warning pulses in his head. _Don’t tell anyone._ He should tell him that his result was Idem, like Gerard said, because that’s what Deaton recorded in the system.

He looks into his father’s eyes, which are pale green and framed by a dark smudge of eyelashes. He has lines around his mouth, but other than that, he looks older than he is. Those lines get deeper when he hums. He used to hum as he washed their clothes.

This is his mother and father.

He can trust them, Deaton’s warning be damned.

“They were inconclusive,” he says softly.

“I thought as much.” his dad sighs. “Many of the humans who are raised in Idem receive that kind of result. We don’t know why. But you have to be very careful during the next stage of initiation, Stiles. Stay in the middle of the pack, no matter what you do. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Do you understand?”

“Dad, what’s going on?”

“I don’t care what sector you chose,” he says, touching his hand to cup Stiles's cheeks. “I am your father and I want to keep you safe.”

“Is this because I’m a—” he starts to say, but his dad presses his hand to his mouth.

“Don’t say that word,” he hisses. “Ever.”

So Deaton was right. Aberrance is a dangerous thing to be. He just doesn’t know why, or even what it really means, still.

“Why?”

His dad shakes his head. “I can’t say.”

He looks over his shoulder, where the light from the Hole floor is barely visible. Stiles hears shouts and conversations, laughter and shuffling footsteps. The smell from the dining hall floats over his nose, sweet and yeasty: baking bread. When his dad turns towards him, his jaw is set.

“There’s something I want you to do,” he says. “I need you to pass Valiant initiation, Stiles. Can you do that for me?"

“Not unless you explain some of this to me, Dad!” He crosses his arms. “You want me to go pass an initiation that has almost killed me, you better give me a damn good reason why.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” He says, sighing as he brushes a lock of hair that fell onto his forehead behind Stiles’s ear. “We should leave. It will make you look better if you don’t seem attached to us.”

“I don’t care how I look to them,” Stiles says.

“You should,” his dad says. “I suspect they are already monitoring you.”

He walks away, holding his mother’s hand and Stiles is too stunned to follow him. At the end of the hallway he turns and says, “Have a piece of cake for me, all right? The chocolate. It’s delicious.” He smiles a strange, twisted smile, and adds, “I love you, you know.”

His mom just looks back at him, a sad smile on her face, “I love you, honey.”

And then they’re both gone.

Stiles stands alone in the black light coming from the lamp above him, and he understands:

His dad has been to the compound before. He remembered this hallway. He knows about the initiation process.

His father was Valiant.

And he doesn’t know how can ever speak to him about it.

-

As far as Stiles can tell, the second stage of initiation involves sitting in a dark hallway with the other initiates, wondering what’s going to happen behind a closed door.

Danny sits across from him, with Erica on his left and Isaac on his right. The Valiant-born initiates and the transfers were separated during stage one, but they will be training together from there on. That’s what Hale told them before he disappeared behind the door. Stiles hasn’t seen him since Visiting Day, and hasn’t had a chance to talk to him.

Scott told him that when he was down for the count at when he was stabbed, everyone was ranked based on their fighting abilities, and Stiles is at number fifteen, which means he really needs to get his shit in gear for the nest part of initiation.

“So,” says Erica, scuffing the floor with her boot. “Which one of you is ranked first, huh?”

His question is met with silence at first, and then Kali clears her throat.

“Me,” she says.

“Bet I could take you.” Erica says it casually, running her fingertips over her red lips. “I’m second, but I bet any of us could take you, transfer.”

Stiles almost laughs. If he was still Idem, her comment would be rude and out of place, but among the Valiant, challenges like that seem common. Stiles is almost starting to expect them.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, if I were you,” Kali says, her eyes glittering. “Who’s first?”

“Danny,” she says. “And I am sure. You know how many years we’ve spent preparing for this?”

If she intends to intimidate them, it works. Stiles already feels colder.

Before Kali can respond, Hale opens the door and says, “Erica.” He beckons to her, and she walks down the hallway, the black light at the end making her blonde hair glow. and she has a smirk on her face. Hale just rolls his eyes at her.

“So you’re first,” Scott says to Danny.

Danny shrugs. “Yeah. And?”

“And you don’t think it’s a little unfair that you’ve spent your entire life getting ready for this, and we’re expected to learn it all in a few weeks?” Lydia asks on Stiles’s right, her eyes narrowing.

“Not really. Stage one was about skill, sure, but no one can prepare for stage two,” he says. “At least, so I’m told.”

No one responds to that. They sit in silence for twenty minutes. Stiles counts each minute on the clock on the opposite wall. Then the door opens again, and Hale calls another name.

“Kali.” he says.

Each minute wears into Stiles like a scrape of sandpaper. Gradually, their numbers begin to dwindle, and it’s just him and Danny and Scott. Scott’s leg bounces, and Danny’s fingers tap against his knee, but Stiles tries to sit perfectly still. He hears only muttering from the room at the end of the hallway, and he suspects this is another part of the game the Valiant likes to play with them. Terrifying all of them at every opportunity.

The door opens, and Hale beckons to him. “Come on, Stiles.”

He stands, his back sore from leaning against the wall for so long, and walks past the other initiates. Danny and Scott both give him encouraging smiles.

Hale touches his shoulder to guide him into the room and closes the door behind him.

When Stiles sees what’s inside, he recoils immediately, his shoulders hitting Hale's chest.

In the room is a reclining metal chair, similar to the one he sat in during the aptitude test. Beside it is a familiar machine. This room has no mirrors and barely any light, like the navy room he was in for the Test. There is a computer screen on a cart next to the chair.

“Sit,” Hale says. He squeezes Stiles's arms and pushes him forward.

“What’s the simulation?” he asks, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He doesn’t succeed.

“Ever hear the phrase ‘face your fears’?” Hale asks. “We’re taking that literally. The simulation will teach you to control your emotions in the midst of a frightening situation.”

Stiles touches a wavering hand to his forehead. Simulations aren’t real; they pose no real threat to him, so logically, he shouldn’t be afraid of them, but his reaction is visceral. It takes all the willpower he has for him to steer himself toward the chair and sit down in it again, pressing his skull into the headrest. The cold from the metal seeps through his black clothes.

“Do you ever administer the aptitude tests?” Stiles asks. Hale seems qualified enough to know how to do it.

“No,” he replies. “I avoid humans as much as possible.”

Stiles has to nod at that, but then he becomes confused. The Valiant would avoid Amicitia or the Probity, maybe, because peace and honesty make people do strange things, but the humans? Wouldn’t he want someone to be submissive to him? He doesn’t seem to actively avoid Stiles.

Stiles voices as much to Hale, “Why? You don’t seem to avoid me.”

“Do you ask me that because you think I’ll actually answer?”

“Why do you say vague things if you don’t want to be asked about them?” Stiles challenges back.

Hale's fingers brush his neck and his body tenses. A tender gesture? No—he has to move Stiles's head to the side. He taps something, and Stiles tilts his head back to see what it is. Hale holds a syringe with a long needle in one hand, his thumb against the plunger. The liquid in the syringe is tinted orange.

“An injection?” His mouth goes dry. He doesn’t usually mind needles, but this one is huge.

“We use a more advanced version of the simulation here,” Hale explains, “a different serum, no wires or electrodes for you.”

“How does it work without wires?”

“Well, I have wires, so I can see what’s going on,” he says. “But for you, there’s a tiny transmitter in the serum that sends data to the computer.”

He turns Stiles's arm over and eases the tip of the needle into the tender skin on the side of his neck. A deep ache spreads through Stiles's throat. He winces and tries to focus on Hale's face.

“The serum will go into effect in sixty seconds. This simulation is different from the aptitude test,” he says. “In addition to containing the transmitter, the serum stimulates the amygdala, which is the part of the brain involved in processing negative emotions —like fear—and then induces a hallucination. The brain’s electrical activity is then transmitted to our computer, which then translates your hallucination into a simulated image that I can see and monitor. I will then forward the recording to Valiant administrators. You stay in the hallucination until you calm down—that is, lower your heart rate and control your breathing.”

Stiles tries to follow his words, but his thoughts are going haywire. He feels the trademark symptoms of fear: sweaty palms, racing heart, tightness in his chest, dry mouth, a lump in his throat, difficulty breathing. Hale plants his hands on either side of Stiles's head and leans over him.

“Be brave, Stiles,” he whispers. “The first time is always the hardest.”

Hale's eyes are the last thing Stiles sees.

 

He stands in a field of dry grass that comes up to his waist. The air smells like smoke and burns his nostrils. Above him, the sky is bile-colored, and the sight of it fills him with anxiety, his body cringing away from it.

He hears fluttering, like the pages of a book blown by the wind, but there is no wind. The air is still and soundless apart from the flapping, neither hot nor cold—not like air at all, but he can still breathe. A shadow swoops overhead.

Something lands on his shoulder. He feels its weight and the prick of talons and fling his arm forward to shake it off, his hand batting at it. He feels something smooth and fragile. A feather. He bites his lip and looks to the side. A hawk the size of his entire arm turns its head and focuses one beady eye on him.

He grits his teeth and hist the hawk again with his hand. It digs in its talons and doesn’t move. He cries out, more frustrated than pained, and hits the hawk with both hands, but it stays in place, resolute, one eye on him, feathers gleaming in the yellow light. Thunder rumbles and he hears the patter of rain on the ground, but no rain falls.

The sky darkens, like a cloud is passing over the sun. Still cringing away from the hawk, he looks up. A flock of hawks storms toward him, an advancing army of outstretched talons and open beaks, each one squawking, filling the air with noise. The hawks descend in a single mass, diving toward the earth, hundreds of beady black eyes shining.

He tries to run, but his feet are firmly planted and refuse to move, like the hawk on his shoulder. He screams as they surround him, feathers flapping in his ears, beaks pecking at his shoulders, talons clinging to his clothes. He screams until his breath feels scratchy in his throat, his arms flailing. His hands hit solid bodies but do nothing; there are too many. He is alone. They nip at his fingertips and press against his body, wings sliding across the back of his neck, feet tearing at his head.

He twists and wrenches and falls to the ground, covering his head with his arms. They scream against him. He feels a wiggling in the grass, a hawk forcing its way under his arm. Stiles opens his eyes and it pecks at his face, its beak hitting him in the nose. Blood drips onto the grass and he yells, hitting it with his palm, but another hawk wedges under his other arm and its claws stick to the front of his shirt.

He is screaming loudly, and can’t stop yelling.

“Help!” he yells. “Help!”

And the hawks flap harder, a roar in Stiles's ears. His body burns, and they are everywhere, and he can’t think, he can’t breathe. He gasps for air and his mouth fills with feathers, feathers down his throat, in his lungs, replacing his blood with dead weight.

“Help,” He yells and screams, insensible, illogical. He can’t take this, can’t handle this anymore.

His skin sears and he is bleeding, and the squawking is so loud his ears are ringing, but he is not dying, and he remembers that it isn’t real, but it feels real, it feels so real. _Be brave. _Hale’s voice screams in his memory. He yells out to him, inhaling feathers and exhaling “Help!” But there will be no help; he is alone.__

____

_You stay in the hallucination until you can calm down, _Hale's voice continues, and Stiles coughs, and his face is wet with blood, and another hawk has wriggled under his arms, and he feels the edge of its sharp beak against his mouth. Its beak wedges past his lips and scrapes his teeth. The hawk pushes its head into his mouth and he bites hard, tasting something foul. He spits and clenches his teeth to form a barrier, but now a fourth hawk is pushing at his feet, and a fifth hawk is pecking at his ribs.__

______ _ _

_Calm down. _He can’t, he can’t. His head throbs.__

________ _ _ _ _

_Breathe. _He keeps his mouth closed and sucks air into his nose. It has been hours since he was alone in the field; it’s been days. He pushes air out of his nose. His heart pounds hard in his chest. He has to slow it down. He breathes again, his face wet.__

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He yells again, and forces himself forward, stretching out on the grass, which prickles against his skin. He extends his arms and breathes. Hawks push and prod at his sides, worming their way beneath him, and Stiles lets them. He lets the flapping of wings and the squawking and the pecking and the prodding continue, relaxing one muscle at a time, resigning himself to becoming a pecked carcass.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

The pain overwhelms him.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He opens his eyes, and he's sitting in the metal chair.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He yells and hits his arms and head and legs to get the birds off him, but they are gone, though he can still feel the feathers brushing the back of his neck and the talons in his shoulder and his burning skin. He groans and sits up, palming his head. It really hurts.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

A hand touches his shoulder, and he flings a fist out, hitting something solid but soft. “Don’t touch me!” he yells.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“It’s over,” Hale says. The hand shifts awkwardly over his hair, and he remembers his mother stroking his hair on Visiting Day, his dad touching his hair when he placed his hands against his face. He runs his palms along his arms, still brushing off feathers, though he knows there aren’t any.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Stiles.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He rocks back and forth in the metal chair, his legs slung over the side so he can stand.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Stiles, I’m going to take you back to your room, okay?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“No!” Stiles snaps. He lifts his head and glares at him, though Stiles can’t see him through the blur of his eyes. “They can’t see me. . . not like this. . .”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Oh, calm down,” Hale says. He rolls his eyes. “I’ll take you out the back door.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Yeah, keep rolling your eyes, big bad. Maybe you’ll find a brain back there.” Stiles scoffs, rubbing his eyes. He looks up at Hale then, and sees him soften.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“C’mon, Stiles.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I don’t need you to. . .” he shakes his head. His body is trembling and he feels so weak he's not sure he can stand, but he has to try. He can’t be the only one who needs to be walked back to the room. Even if they don’t see him, they’ll find out, they’ll talk about him—

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“No they won't.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hale grabs his arm and hauls him out of the chair. He blinks his eyes a couple of times, trying to make them car again so he can see properly, wipes his cheeks with the heel of his hand so he can get rid of the blush no doubts staining his face, and lets Hale steer him toward the door behind the computer screen.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

They walk down the hallway in silence. When they’re a few hundred yards away from the room, Stiles yanks his arm away and stops.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Why did you do that to me?” Stiles asks, glaring. “What was the point of that, huh? I wasn’t aware that when I chose Valiant, I was signing up for weeks of torture!”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Did you think overcoming cowardice would be easy?” Hale says calmly, and Stiles kind of want to shake him.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“That isn’t overcoming cowardice! Cowardice is how you decide to be in real life, and in real life, I am not getting pecked to death by hawks, Hale!” He press his palms to his face and sighs into them.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hale doesn’t say anything, just stands there as Stiles collects himself. It only takes him a few seconds to stop and wipe his face again. “I never want to go through that again,” he says weakly.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

But abandoning initiation is not an option anymore. His choices are Valiant or the sectorless slums, and he isn’t going to give anyone that satisfaction.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hale doesn’t look at him with sympathy. He just looks at Stiles. His eyes look black in the dim corridor, and his mouth is set in a hard line.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Learning how to think in the midst of fear,” Hale says, “is a lesson that everyone, even your human family, needs to learn. That’s what we’re trying to teach you. If you can’t learn it, you’ll need to get the hell out of here, because we won’t want you.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I’m trying!" Stiles exclaims. “But I failed. I’m failing.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hale sighs. “How long do you think you spent in that hallucination, Stiles?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “A half hour?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Three minutes,” Hale replies. “You got out three times faster than the other initiates. Whatever you are, you’re not a failure.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Three minutes?

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hale smiles a little. “Tomorrow you’ll be better at this. You’ll see.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Tomorrow?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hale touches his back and guides him toward the room. He feels his fingertips through his shirt. Their gentle pressure makes Stiles forget the hawks for a moment.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What was your first hallucination?” Stiles asks, glancing at him.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“It wasn’t a ‘what’ so much as a ‘who.’” Hale shrugs. “It’s not important.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“And are you over that fear now?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Not yet.” They reach the door to the room, where all the other initiates will be, and Hale leans against the wall, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I may never be.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“So they don’t go away?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Sometimes they do. And sometimes new fears replace them.” His thumbs hook around his belt loops. “But becoming fearless isn’t the point. That’s impossible. It’s learning how to control your fear, and how to be free from it, that’s the point.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles nods. He used to think the Valiant were fearless. That's how they seemed, anyway. But maybe what Stiles saw as fearless was actually fear under control.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Anyway, your fears are rarely what they appear to be in the simulation,” he adds.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What do you mean?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Well, are you really afraid of hawks?” he asks, half smiling at Stiles. The expression warms his eyes enough that Stiles forgets he’s his instructor. He’s just a boy, talking casually, walking Stiles to his door. “When you see one, do you run away screaming?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“No. I guess not.” Stiles thinks about stepping closer to him, not for any practical reason, but just because he wants to see what it would be like to stand that close to him; just because he wants to.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Foolish_ , a voice in Stiles's head says.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He steps closer and leans against the wall too, tilting his head sideways to look at Hale. As he did on the Ferris wheel, he knows exactly how much space there is between them.  Six inches. He leans. Less than six inches. Stiles feels warmer, like Hale's giving off some kind of energy that he is only now close enough to feel.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“So what am I really afraid of?” Stiles asks.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I don’t know,” Hale says. “Only you can know.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles nods slowly. There are a dozen things it could be, but he's not sure which one is right, or if there’s even one right one.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I didn’t know becoming Valiant would be this difficult,” Stiles says, and a second later, he is surprised that he said it; surprised that he admitted to it. He bites the inside of his cheek and watches Hale carefully. Was it a mistake to tell him that?

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“It’s harder for you, because you’re a human.” He says, shrugging. Stiles notices he does that a lot. “It’s easier for other supernatural creatures to pass the physical stuff, and some mental stuff, too. But here, we’re preparing you to fight as though you were human. Suppose you meet a witch who renders you of your supernatural powers and places you into your fear state? What then?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles never thought of it like that, but it really makes sense.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“It wasn’t always like this, anyway, I’m told,” Hale continues, lifting a shoulder. Stiles’s admission doesn’t appear to bother him. “Being Valiant, I mean.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What changed?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“The leadership,” Hale says. “The person who controls training sets the standard of Valiant behavior. Six years ago Deucalion and the other leaders changed the training methods to make them more competitive and more brutal, said it was supposed to test everyone’s strength. And that changed the priorities of Valiant as a whole. Bet you can’t guess who the leaders’ new protégé is.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

The answer is obvious: Ennis. They trained him to be vicious, and now he will train everyone else to be vicious too, under Deucalion’s rule, of course.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles looks at Hale. Their training didn’t work on him.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“So if you were ranked first in your initiate class,” Stiles says, “what was Ennis’s rank?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Second.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“So he was their second choice for leadership.” Stiles nods slowly. “And you were their first.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What makes you say that?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“The way Deucalion was acting at dinner the first night, talking about Ennis and saying basically how the job should be yours. Jealous, even though he has what he wants.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hale doesn’t contradict him. He must be right. He wants to ask why Hale didn’t take the position the leaders offered him; why he is so resistant to leadership when he seems to be a natural leader. But he knows how Hale feels about personal questions.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles sniffs, wiping his face one more time, even though he knows nothing is on it, and smooths his hair.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Do I look alright?” He asks.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Hmm.” Hale leans in close, narrowing his eyes like he’s inspecting Stiles's face. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Even closer, so they would be breathing the same air—if Stiles could remember to breathe.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Yes, Stiles,” he says. A more serious look replaces his smile as he adds, “You look tough as nails.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

-

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles really wants to do something to remind himself how brave he needs to be to pass initiation, but he’s not sure what to do.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

It comes to him, the next day, when Isaac, Lydia, Allison, Scott, and Jackson burst through the initiate's rooms door and head straight to Stiles, exclaiming, “We need to get tattoos!”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles can’t help but laugh, “What? Are you guys serious?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Yeah, buddy, of course.” Scott says, a smile on his face. “We need to prove to everyone that we belong here, and having something permanent seems necessary.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Besides, won’t it be fun?” Lydia asks, a bright gleam in her eyes. Stiles is glad Lydia decided to be friends with them. Even though she was with Jackson before, Stiles really doesn’t think they would have worked out, and is glad Lydia saw how much of a douche Jackson was and dumped him after the first couple of weeks. He still hangs out with them though, and Stiles finds himself not minding it that much. Sure, Jackson is a douche, but he’s funny as shit.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Stiles chuckles, and stands. They all head to the Hole then, down to a secluded corner where an open tattoo parlor is hidden away. Stiles can’t help but feel excited, his heart beating quickly.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What are you gonna get, Isaac?” Allison asks, bumping him on the shoulder.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I - I don’t kn-know.” He says, wiping his palms on his pants. He looks out of place in the tattoo parlor, hinted over and sweating.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What’s wrong, Isaac?” Scott asks, patting his shoulder. Isaac just looks down at the ground.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Are you. . .are you scared?” Allison asks, bending down so that Isaac will look her in the eyes.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“So what if I am.” Isaac says, hissing it through his teeth.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Nothing, dude. There isn’t anything wrong with being afraid of needles.” Stiles says, patting him on the back. “None of us are going to judge you, buddy.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Isaac looks up then, a relieved smile on his face.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

They all look around then, looking at various glass templates that hang on different pillars around the parlor. Stiles sees Allison pick up one of two arrows crossing the each other, and smiles.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

When she catches Stiles looking she walks over to him, says, “I took up archery in Tutelage. This is a good way to remind me where I come from.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles smiles tenderly back at her, nodding. She looks back at him, and asks, “Which one are you doing?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I think I’m going to get the Valiant symbol, the triskele.” Stiles replies, holding it up.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Why?” Allison asks, and Stiles can tell that she’s actually interested in his answer.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles shrugs, “It reminds me of bravery. I’m not sure anymore if I’m going to make it past initiation, and I think this is a good way to remind me to keep fighting.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“That’s a good one.” Allison nods, chuckling. She picks up another one, next to Stiles’s left, that says ‘heart/mind,’ and Stiles sees her look back over her shoulder at Scott. “I think I’m going to get this one, too."

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles smiles at her, and they stay like that for a moment, and then she turns around to go back to show her tattoos to Scott.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

When everyone has chosen, Scott’s two lines, one thicker than the other (“It represents growth, guys”), Isaac’s five fold knot (“It’s cool, I guess”), Jackson’s kanima (“Badass, right?”) and Lydia’s banshee flowers (“You seriously didn’t know I was a banshee?”) along with Allison’s and Stiles’s, Stiles choosing another one, a backwards 's’ representing ‘Self', they all sit next to each other, getting inked at the same time.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Isaac is holding Lydia’s hand, clenching hard and closing his eyes and writhing in his chair as the tattoo pad is placed on top of his right pec, right across from where his heart is, and Stiles shares a look with Scott over their tattoo artist's heads that says _when did_ that _happen?_

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles decides to get the triskele on top of his stab wound, to remind himself to be brave every time he looks at the wound, and to get the ’Self’ on the inside of his right wrist, so he can look at it and be reminded of who he is and where he comes from.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

The tattoos sting, but after the first initial prick of the hundreds of needles into his flesh, Stiles gets used to it, and lays back as the ink is being put into his skin. He didn’t want any color in his tattoos, so they are just black instead.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Well, look at that.” He hears someone say, and Stiles looks around to see Danny leaning up against the entrance to the parlor.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles smiles at him, “What’s up, Danny?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Oh nothing, Stiles. Just saw you in here and couldn’t believe it. A Squatter, getting inked?” Danny laughs, putting his hand over his heart in mock surprise. “I think I might die of shock.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles laughs, “Oh shut it, Danny.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Danny chuckles in return, moving to sit down beside him. As Danny shifts, Stiles looks up and around him, catches sight of Hale leaning against the chasm railing, his head thrown back in a laugh. Judging by the black bottle he’s holding, Stiles would assume that he’s intoxicated. He has begun to think of Hale as rigid, a soldier, but sometimes Stiles forgets that Hale is only four years older than him, at twenty-two years old. Still young enough to warrant his behavior.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hale catches sight of him, and his eyes widen, before he gives the bottle to someone else.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Danny sits with him as he’s finished getting inked, telling him something Erica did, but Stiles isn’t really paying attention, just looking past Danny at Hale. Hale is staring intently in his eyes, and when everyone is done getting their tattoos, making their way back towards the room, Hale’s eyes follow him.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Danny is standing on Stiles’s left side, and Hale’s body is angled on the right, so it isn’t hard for him to look back out of his peripheral and see Hale behind him.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Uh-oh,” says Lydia. “Instructor alert.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“At least it’s not Deucalion or Ennis,” Stiles says. “They’d probably make us play chicken or something.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Sure, but Hale is scary. Remember when he put the gun up to Jackson’s head? I think Jackson wet himself.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Jackson deserved it,” Stiles says without any heat.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

"Watch it, Stilinski. I can still kick your ass."

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

"Oh please, you know you're just mad because Lydia likes me better than you." Stiles nudges him with his arm, and is surprised that Jackson lets him.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Lydia doesn’t argue with him. She might have, a few weeks ago, when she and Jackson were together, but now they’ve all seen how well that wouldn't have worked out.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Stiles!” Hale calls out. Stiles and Jackson exchange a look, half surprise and half apprehension. Hale pulls away from the railing and walks up to him. Ahead of Stiles, Allison and Scott look behind them, and they both whip around to stare. Stiles doesn’t blame them for staring. There are seven of them, and Hale is only talking to Stiles.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“You look different.” His words, normally crisp, are now sluggish.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“So do you,” Stiles says. And he does—he looks more relaxed, younger. “What are you doing?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Flirting with death,” he replies with a laugh. “Drinking near the chasm. Probably not a good idea. Should have told them not to break out the wolfsbane.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“No, it isn’t.” Stiles isn't sure he likes Hale this way. There’s something unsettling about it.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Didn’t know you had a tattoo,” he says, looking at Stiles’s bandage on his wrist.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I actually have two now.” Stiles says, pulling them hem of his shirt down so that Hale can see his other bandage. “Reminds me to get rid of my fears."

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Right. The hawks,” he says. He glances over his shoulder at his friends, who are carrying on without him, unlike Stiles’s, who are still gaping at Hale. Stiles can feel Danny at his side, his jaw tense. Hale adds, “I’d ask you to hang out with us, but you’re not supposed to see me this way.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles is tempted to ask him why he wants him to hang out with him, but he suspects the answer has something to do with the bottle he handed to someone else.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What way?” Stiles asks. “Drunk?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Yeah. . .well, no.” His voice softens. “Real, I guess.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I’ll pretend I didn’t.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Nice of you.” He puts his lips next to Stiles's ear and says, “You look good, Stiles.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

His words surprise him, and his heart leaps. Stiles wishes it didn’t, because judging by the way Hale’s eyes slide over his, he has no idea what he’s saying. Stiles laughs. “Do me a favor and stay away from the chasm, okay?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Of course.” He winks.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles can’t help it. He smiles. Danny clears his throat, but he doesn’t want to turn away from Hale, even when he walks back to his friends.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Then Danny rushes at him and throws him over his shoulder. Stiles shrieks, his face hot.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Come on, little human,” he says, “I’m taking you to dinner.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles rests his elbows on Danny's back and waves at Hale as Danny carries him away.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I thought I would rescue you,” Danny says as they walk away. He sets Stiles down. “What was that all about? I didn’t really like the way he was looking at you.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He's trying to sound lighthearted, but he asks the question almost sadly. It gives Stiles a weird feeling.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Yeah, I think we’d all like to know the answer to that question,” says Lydia in a singsong voice. She’s smirking. “What did he say to you?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Nothing.” Stiles shakes his head. “He was drunk. He didn’t even know what he was saying.” He clears his throat. “That’s why I was grinning. It’s. . .funny to see him that way.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Right,” says Jackson. “Couldn’t possibly be because—”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles elbows him hard in the ribs before he can finish his sentence. He was close enough to hear what Hale said to him about looking good. He doesn’t need him telling everyone about it, especially not in front of Danny. Stiles doesn’t want to open that can of worms. And besides, Hale is a werewolf, and can hear everything they're saying. He drops it, and they continue.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

At home, he used to spend quiet nights with his family. He didn’t really understand before, but now he realizes that they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves, unlike Stiles and his friends right now, with Scott giving Allison a piggyback ride, Isaac and Lydia talking loudly, Jackson occasionally joining in, and he and Danny laughing so loud Stiles thinks he’s hears it echo off the rock wall.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He has never been carried around by a boy, or laughed until his stomach hurt, or listened to the clamor of a hundred people all talking at once.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Idem is quiet, whereas Valiant is loud.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He is awake, unlike every other human in Idem.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Quiet is restrained; _this_ is free.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

-

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“It’s just a simulation, Stiles.” Hale says quietly.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He’s wrong. The last simulation bled into Stiles's life, waking and sleeping, when he was getting his tattoos. And Stiles is not the only one who feels that way; he can tell.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Still, he nods and closes his eyes as the simulation awakens.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He is in darkness. The last thing he remembers is the metal chair and the needle in his neck. This time there is no field; there are no hawks. His heart pounds in anticipation. What monsters will creep from the darkness and steal his rationality? How long will he have to wait for them?

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

A while orb lights up a few feet ahead of him, and then another one, filling the room with light. He is on the Hole floor, next to the chasm, and the initiates stand around him, their arms folded and their faces blank. He searches for Scott and finds him standing among them. None of them move. Their stillness makes Stiles's throat feel tight.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He sees something in front of him—his own faint reflection, like he saw in the mirror in the aptitude test room. He touches it, and his fingers find glass, cool and smooth. He looks up. There is a pane above him; he’s in a glass box. He presses above his head to see if he can force the box open. It doesn’t budge. He is sealed in.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

His heart beats faster. Stiles doesn’t want to be trapped. Someone taps on the wall in front of him. Hale. He points at Stiles's feet, smirking.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

A few seconds ago, his feet were dry, but now he stands in half an inch of water, and his socks are soggy. He crouches to see where the water is coming from, but it seems to be coming from nowhere, rising up from the box’s glass bottom. He looks up at Hale, and he shrugs. He joins the crowd of initiates.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

The water rises fast. It now covers Stiles's ankles. He pounds against the glass with his fist. “Hey!” He says. “Let me out of here!”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

The water slides up his calves as it rises, cool and soft. He hits the glass harder. “Get me out of here!”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles stares at Scott. He leans over to Kali and Jackson, who stand beside him, and whispers something in their ears. They all laugh.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

The water covers his thighs. He pounds both fists against the glass. He's not trying to get their attention anymore; he's trying to break out. Frantic, he bangs against the glass as hard as he can. He steps back and throws his shoulder into the wall, once, twice, three times, four times. He hits the wall until his shoulder aches, screaming for help, watching the water rise to his waist, his rib cage, his chest.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Help!” He yells. “Please! Please help!”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He hits the glass. He will die in this tank. He drags his shaking hands through his hair.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He sees Hale standing among the initiates, and something tickles at the back of his mind. Something he said. _Come on, think._ He stops trying to break the glass. It’s hard to breathe, but he has to try. He’ll need as much air as he can get in a few seconds.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

His body rises to his tip toes, weightless in the water. He float closer to the ceiling and tilts his head back as the water covers his chin. Gasping, he presses his face to the glass above him, sucking in as much air as he can. Then the water covers him, sealing him into the box.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Don’t panic._ It’s no use—his heart pounds and his thoughts scatter. He thrashes in the water, smacking the walls. He kicks the glass as hard as he can, but the water slows down his foot. _The simulation is all in your head._

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He tries to scream, and water fills his mouth. If it’s in his head, he controls it. The water burns his eyes. The initiates’ passive faces stare back at him. They don’t care.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He sees his panicked reflection in the glass, and is again reminded of the aptitude test. But before he can dwell on it, his reflection’s lips open and out comes, “This isn’t real."

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles stares at his reflection, and hears it again, this time more frantic, “This isn’t real!”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He shoves the wall with his palm., and suddenly hears something. A cracking sound. When he pulls his hand away, there is a line in the glass. He brings his hand up to trace it, and knocks on it again with his finger and drives another crack through the glass, this one spreading outward from his finger in long, crooked fingers. His chest burns like he just swallowed fire. He knocks the glass again and he hears a long, low groan.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

The pane shatters, and the force of the water against his back throws him forward. There is air again.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He gasps and sits up. He’s in the chair. He gulps and shakes out his hands. Hale stands to his right, but instead of helping him up, like he did last time, he just looks at him.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What?” Stiles asks.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“How did you do that?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Do what?” He swallows.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Crack the glass.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I don’t know.” Hale finally offers him his hand. He swings his legs over the side of the chair, and when he stands, he feels steady. Calm.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hale sighs and grabs Stile by the elbow, half leading and half dragging him out of the room. They walk quickly down the hallway, and then he stops, pulling his arm back. Hale stares at him in silence. He won’t give Stiles information without prompting.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What?” Stiles demands, glaring.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What were your test results?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Idem.” Stiles says slowly, holding his breath.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Don’t lie to me,” Hale says, his arms crossed, “I’m going to ask again, and you better tell me the truth. What was your test results, Stiles?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Idem.” He says it again, crossing his arms just like Hale’s. Hale scoffs, and gives him a look.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What?” Stiles clenches out, frustrated.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“You’re Aberrant,” Hale replies.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles stares at him, fear pulsing through him like electricity. Hale knows. _How does he know?_ He must have slipped up. Said something wrong.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He should act casual. He leans back, pressing his shoulders to the wall, and says, “No, I’m not. What’s Aberrant?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Don’t play stupid,” Hale hisses. “I suspected it last time, but this time it’s obvious. You manipulated the simulation; you’re Aberrant. I’ll delete the footage, but unless you want to wind up dead at the bottom of the chasm, you’ll figure out how to hide it during the simulations! Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He walks back to the simulation room and slams the door behind him. Stiles feels his heartbeat in his throat. He manipulated the simulation; he broke the glass. He didn’t know that was an act of Aberrance.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

How did Hale?

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles pushes himself away from the wall and starts down the hallway. He needs answers, but he doesn’t know where to get them from.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He’ll have to figure it out on his own.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

The simulations are going too well. No one else’s simulations are going that well.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles tries to think deeper. He is someone who seems to be aware when he’s in a simulation, that what he’s experiencing isn’t real. Someone who can manipulate the simulation and potentially shut it down.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

A weight settles in his chest, like each sentence he thinks is piling there. Tension builds inside him.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He needs to think of everything he knows.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

The Valiant leaders can’t know about him yet. Deaton entered his result manually, like Gerard said, and logged his result as Idem. But Gerard said he and only one other transfer went to Valiant from Idem.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

But Hale said he’s the only human transfer that the Valiant have had. So someone from Idem did transfer, but they weren’t Idem, or a human.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles just has to figure out who, he just doesn’t know how.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

And if the Valiant leaders find out, they might kill him. His dad told him about how the Tutelage were hunting in Idem, and about how humans in Idem are Aberrant.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

People in Tutelage are hunting Aberrants.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Gerard is from Tutelage, and he knows that Stiles is the only human transfer from Idem. Stiles is Aberrant.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Gerard is hunting Stiles.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

In the second stage of training, Stiles is getting really good. He’s faster than anyone, and he hasn’t seen his rank, but Stiles knows that it’s gone up.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

So is that what being Aberrant is? Changing the simulations?

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

And how many people know? Obviously Gerard and some Valiant leaders, along with Hale.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

And it’s only a matter of time before they find him too.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles holds his head in his hands and breathes deeply. Today, the simulation was the same as yesterday: Someone held him at gunpoint and ordered him to shoot his family. When he lifts his head, he sees that Hale is watching him.

“I know the simulation isn’t real,” Stiles says.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Hale replies. “You love your family. You don’t want to shoot them. Not the most unreasonable thing in the world.”

“In the simulation is the only time I get to see them,” Stiles says. It’s been weeks since Visiting Day, and Stiles really wants to see them again. Even though Hale says he doesn’t, Stiles feels like he has to explain why this fear is so difficult for him to face. He twists his fingers together and pulls them apart. His nail beds are bitten raw—he must have been chewing them as he sleeps. He wakes to bloody hands every morning. “I miss them. You ever just. . .miss your family?”

Hale looks down. “No,” he says eventually. “I don’t. But that’s unusual.”

It is unusual, so unusual it distracts Stiles from the memory of holding a gun to his mother’s chest. What was his family like that he no longer cares about them?

Stiles pauses with his hand on the doorknob and looks back at Hale.

Hale's eyes hold his, and as the silent seconds pass, he looks less and less stern. Stiles hears his heartbeat. He has been looking at Hale too long, but then, Hale's been looking back, and Stiles feels like they are both trying to say something the other can’t hear, though he could be imagining it. Too long—and now, even longer, his heart even louder, Hale's tranquil eyes swallowing him whole.

Stiles pushes the door open and hurries down the hallway.

He shouldn’t be so easily distracted by Hale. He shouldn’t be able to think of anything but initiation. The simulations should disturb him more; they should break his mind, as they have been doing to most of the other initiates. Aiden doesn’t sleep—he just stares at the wall, curled in a ball. Ethan screams every night from his nightmares and cries into his pillow. Stiles’s nightmares and chewed fingernails pale by comparison.

Ethan’s screams wake him every time, and he stares at the bland ceiling above him and wonders what on earth is wrong with him, that he still feels strong when everyone else is breaking down. Is it being Aberrant that makes him steady, or is it something else? Even thinking the word makes it seem more dangerous.

When he get back to the room, he expects to find the same thing he found the day before: a few initiates lying on beds or staring at nothing. Instead, they stand in a group on the other end of the room. Deucalion is in front of them, Ennis at his side with a tablet in his hands. A screen is next to both of them, blank.

Stiles stands next to Scott.

“What’s going on?” he whispers.

“Rankings for stage two,” he says.

“I thought there weren’t any cuts after stage two,” Stiles hisses.

“There aren’t. It’s just a progress report, sort of.”

Stiles nods.

The sight of the screen makes him feel uneasy, like something is swimming in his stomach. Ennis taps on his tablet, and the screen shutters. When he steps aside, the room falls silent, and Stiles cranes his neck to see what it says.

His name is in the first slot.

Heads turn in his direction. He follows the list down. Scott and Allison are third and fourth, respectively. Kali is second, but when he look at the time listed by his name, he realized that the margin between him and Kali is conspicuously wide.

Kali’s average simulation time is eight minutes. His is three minutes, forty-five seconds.

“Nice job, Stiles,” Lydia says quietly. He looks to the board, and sees that her and Isaac are in fifth and sixth, high enough that they will make it through initiation. Aiden and Ethan are ranked thirteenth and fifteenth. At this rate, neither of them will make it through initiation when ranked among the other Valiant-born initiates.

Stiles nods at Lydia, still staring at the board. He should be pleased that he's ranked first, after being at the bottom for so long, but he knows what that means. If Kali and her friends hated Stiles before, for advancing and winning in rescue the damsel, they will despise him now.

The crowd of initiates breaks up slowly, leaving just him, Kali, Scott, and Ethan standing there.

Kali turns slowly, every limb infused with tension. A glare would have been less threatening than the look she gives him—a look of pure hatred. She walks toward her bunk, but at the last second, she whips around and shoves him against a wall, a hand on each of his shoulders.

“I will not be outranked by a human,” she hisses, her face so close to his he can smell her stale breath. “How did you do it, huh? How the hell did you do it?”

She pulls him forward a few inches and then slams him against the wall again. Stiles clenches his teeth to keep from crying out, though pain from the impact went all the way down his spine. Ethan grabs Kali by her tank top and drags her away from him.

“Leave him alone,” he says. “Only a coward bullies a human.”

“A human?” scoffs Kali, throwing off Ethan’s hand. “Are you blind, or just stupid? He’s going to edge you out of the rankings and out of Valiant, and you’re going to get nothing, all because he knows how to manipulate people and you don’t. So when you realize that he’s out to ruin us all, you let me know.”

Kali storms out of the room. Ethan follows her, a look of disgust on his face.

Scott laughs, “Sure thing, Kali." 

“Hey, thanks for helping me, dude.” Stiles’s says sarcastically, nudging Scott.

“Oh, please. You can totally handle yourself. Don’t need me to fight your battles anymore.” Scott says, pulling Stiles towards him and looping an arm around his shoulders.

Stiles just laughs in response.

 

Stiles somehow finds a hallway he hasn’t been in yet. He sits down and leans against it, needing some alone time. He loves his friends, but all of them are talking about getting drunk, and Stiles isn’t really up for it. Besides, he can’t drink the wolfsbane liquor anyway.

“Stiles!” someone calls from the end of the hallway. Danny jogs toward him. Behind him is Erica and Isaac, and Isaac is holding a muffin.

“Thought I would find you here.” He crouches near Stiles's feet. “I heard you got ranked first.”

“So you just wanted to congratulate me?” Stiles smirks. “Well, thanks.”

“Someone should,” Danny says. “And I figured you might want to celebrate. I saw your friends in the dining hall, drinking, and noticed you were gone. So quit sitting by yourself and come with us. I’m going to shoot a muffin off Erica’s head.”

The idea is so ridiculous he can’t stop myself from laughing. He gets up and follows Danny to the end of the hallway, where Erica and Isaac are waiting. Isaac nudges his shoulder, and Erica grins.

“Why aren’t you out celebrating?” she asks. “You’re practically guaranteed a top ten spot if you keep it up.”

“He’s too Valiant for the other transfers.” Danny says.

“And too Idem to celebrate.” remarks Isaac, laughing.

“What are you doing, here? I thought you were going drinking.” Stiles asks Isaac.

“Turns out I don’t want to drink anyway.”  Isaac says, shrugging.

Stiles nods at him. “Why are you shooting a muffin off Erica’s head?”

“She bet me I couldn’t aim well enough to hit a small object from one hundred feet,” Danny explains. “I bet her she didn’t have the guts to stand there as I tried. It works out well, really.”

The training room where Stiles first learned to fight is not far from the hallway. They get there in under a minute, and Danny flips on a light switch. It looks the same as the last time Stiles was there: targets on one end of the room, orange counting bags in another corner, the knives thrown at Stiles on another table.

“They just keep these lying around?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah.” Danny pulls up his shirt. There is a gun stuck under the waistband of his pants, right under a tattoo. Stiles stares at the tattoo, trying to figure out what it is, but then he lets his shirt fall. “Okay,” he says. “Go stand in front of a target.”

Erica walks away, a skip in her step.

“You aren’t seriously going to shoot at her, are you?” Stiles asks Danny.

“It’s not a real gun,” says Danny. “It’s got plastic pellets in it. The worst it’ll do is sting her face, maybe give her a welt. Nothing too bad.”

Erica stands in front of one of the targets and sets the muffin on her head. Danny squints one eye as he aims the gun.

“Wait!” calls out Erica. She breaks off a piece of the muffin and pops it into her mouth. “Mmkay!” she shouts, the word garbled by food. She gives Danny a thumbs-up.

“I take it your ranks were good,” Stiles says to Danny.

He nods. “I’m first. Erica’s second.”

“You’re only first by a hair ,” says Erica as he aims. He squeezes the trigger. The muffin falls off Erica’s head. She didn’t even blink.

“We both win!” she shouts.

“You miss your old sector?” Isaac asks suddenly, looking nostalgic.

“Sometimes,” Stiles says. “It was calmer. Not as exhausting.”

Erica picks up the muffin from the ground and bites into it. Danny shouts, “Gross!”

“Initiation’s supposed to wear us down to who we really are. That’s what Ennis says, anyway,” Erica says. She arches an eyebrow.

“Hale says it’s to prepare us.” Stiles says.

“Well, they don’t agree on much.”

Stiles nods. Hale told him that Ennis’s vision for Valiant is not what it’s supposed to be, but Stiles wishes he would tell him exactly what he thinks the right vision is. Stiles gets glimpses of it every so often—the Valiant cheering when he jumped off the building, the net of arms that caught him after zip lining—but they're not enough. Has Hale read the Valiant manifesto? Stiles did, back when he had to learn about all the sectors. _We believe in ordinary acts of bravery._ Is that what Hale believes in—in ordinary acts of bravery?

The door to the training room opens. Boyd and Hale walk in just as Danny fires at another target. The plastic pellet bounces off the center of the target and ricochets back to Stiles, scraping against his nose, hard.

“Hey!” He shouts, his hands going to cup his nose. Danny rushes over then, but can’t hold in a laugh.

“I thought I heard something in here,” Hale says. “What happened to you? Why are you bleeding?”

“Because he’s an idiot.” Danny says, rolling his eyes.

“I didn’t know that idiocy caused people to just start spontaneously bleeding from the nose.” Stiles replies, his sarcasm thick.

“I think it’s a new phenomenon.” Danny chuckles, wiping some of the blood from Stiles’s nose on his own black t-shirt. Hale watches him do it with an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, Danny. Keep doing that. Love it when you get all manly with me.” Stiles says, sarcastically, laughing, as he wipes away all the blood.

“Man, you guys are loud.” Erica says.

“Turns out it’s just these idiots, Hale,” Boyd chuckles. “You’re not supposed to be in here after hours. Careful, or Hale'll tell Ennis, and Ennis will tell Deucalion, and then you’ll be as good as scalped.”

Danny wrinkles his nose and puts the pellet gun away. Erica crosses the room, taking bites of her muffin, stopping in front of Boyd to kiss him, and Hale steps away from the door to let everyone file out.

“You wouldn’t tell Ennis,” says Isaac, eyeing Hale suspiciously.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he says. As Stiles passes him, he rests his hand on the top of Stiles's back to usher him out, his palm pressing between his shoulder blades. Stiles shivers. He hopes Hale can’t tell.

The others walk down the hallway, Boyd and Danny shoving each other, Erica splitting her muffin with Isaac. Stiles starts to follow them.

“Wait a second,” Hale says. Stiles turns toward him, wondering which version of Hale he’ll see now—the one who scolds him, or the one who climbs Ferris wheels with him. Hale smiles a little, but the smile doesn’t spread to his eyes, which look tense and worried.

“You belong here, you know that?” he says. “You belong with us. It’ll be over soon, so just hold on, okay?”

He scratches behind his ear and looks away, like he’s embarrassed by what he said.

Stiles stares at him. He feels his heartbeat everywhere, even in his toes. He feels like doing something bold, but he could just as easily walk away. He is not sure which option is smarter, or better. He is not sure that he cares.

Stiles reaches out and takes his hand. Hale’s fingers slide between Stiles's. He can’t breathe.

He stares at him, and Hale stares back at him. For a long moment, they stay that way. Then Stiles pulls his hand away and runs after Danny, Isaac, and Erica. Maybe now he thinks Stiles is stupid, or strange.

Maybe it was worth it.

 

Stiles gets back to the room before anyone else does, and when they start to trickle in, he gets into bed and pretends to be asleep.

He thinks about his friends, how supportive they are. He thinks about Kali and how she completely despises him. He thinks about Hale the most, though, and the way he looked when Stiles held his hand.

After at least a half hour of racing thoughts, he rolls onto his back and opens his eyes. The room is dark now—everyone has gone to bed. _Probably exhausted from celebrating so much,_ he thinks with a smile. He gets out of bed to get a drink of water. He's not thirsty, but he needs to do something. His bare feet make sticky sounds on the floor as he walks, his hand skimming the wall to keep his path straight. It’s these times in the dark when he wishes that he could be a supernatural creature, if only to be able to have night vision, but he likes being human. Others don’t like that he is, but that’s how Stiles was born, and that’s how he wants to stay.

A bulb glows above the drinking fountain.

He bends over. As soon as the water touches his lips, he hears voices at the end of the hallway. He creeps closer to them, trusting the dark to keep him hidden enough.

“So far there haven’t been any signs of it.” Ennis’s voice. Signs of what?

“Well, you wouldn’t have seen much of it yet,” someone replies. A male voice; cold and familiar. “Combat training shows you nothing. The simulations, however, reveal who the Aberrant rebels are, if there are any, so we will have to examine the footage several times to be sure.”

The word “Aberrant” makes him go cold. He leans forward, his back pressed to the stone, to see who the familiar voice belongs to.

“Don’t forget the reason I had Deucalion appoint you,” the voice says. “Your first priority is always finding them. Always.”

“I won’t forget.”

He shifts a few inches forward, hoping he is still hidden. Whoever that voice belongs to, he is pulling the strings; he is responsible for Ennis’s leadership position; he is the one who wants Stiles dead. He tilts his head forward, straining to see them, and sees Gerard Argent turning a corner.

Then someone grabs him from behind.

He starts to yell, but a hand claps over his mouth. It smells like soap and it’s big enough to cover the lower half of his face. He thrashes, but the arms holding him are too strong, supernaturally strong, and he bites down on one of the fingers.

“Ow!” a rough voice cries.

“Shut up and keep his mouth covered.” That voice is deeper than the average female’s and clearer. Kali.

A strip of dark cloth covers his eyes, and a new pair of hands ties it at the back of his head. He struggles to breathe. There are at least two hands on his arms, dragging him forward, and one on his back, shoving him in the same direction, and one on his mouth, keeping his screams in. Three people. His chest hurts. He can’t resist three people on his own, especially supernatural people.

“Wonder what it sounds like when a human begs for mercy,” Kali says with a chuckle. “Hurry up.”

He tries to focus on the hand on his mouth. If he can’t focus on something, he’s going to panic.

The palm is sweaty and soft. Stiles clenches his teeth and breathes through his nose. The soap smell is familiar. Stiles remembers smelling it when he talked to Heather, remembers it coming from Aiden.

He hears the crash of water against rocks. They are near the chasm—they must be above it, given the volume of the sound. He presses his lips together to keep from screaming. If they're above the chasm, Stiles knows what they intend to do to him.

“Lift him up, c’mon.”

He thrashes, and their rough skin grates against his, but he knows it’s useless. He yells too, knowing that no one can hear him there.

He will survive until tomorrow. He will.

The hands push him around and up and slam his spine into something hard and cold. Judging by its width and curvature, it is a metal railing. It is the metal railing, the one that overlooks the chasm. His breaths wheeze and mist touches the back of his neck. The hands force his back to arch over the railing. His feet leave the ground, and his attackers are the only thing keeping him from falling into the water. He can feel claws at his back, like in his simulator with the hawks.

A heavy hand gropes along his thighs. “You sure you’re eighteen, Squatter? I don’t feel anything here.” He hears laughter.

Bile rises in his throat and he swallows the bitter taste.

“Wait, I think I found something!” His hand squeezes Stiles. He bites his tongue to keep from yelling as Aiden or Ethan, he isn’t sure which one, grab his dick through his pants. More laughter. "Damn Stiles, didn't know you were hiding _that_ underneath those jeans."

Stiles bites his hand, and Aiden's hand slips from his mouth. “Stop that,” he snaps. Stiles recognizes his low, distinct voice.

When Aiden lets go of him, he thrashes again and slips down to the ground. This time, he bites down as hard as he can on the first arm he finds. He hears a scream and then feels claw marks slashing at him. Something hard strikes his face. White heat races through his head. It would have been painful if adrenaline wasn’t coursing through him like acid.

One of the twins wrenches his trapped arm away from Stiles and throws him to the ground. He bangs his arm against stone and brings his hands up to his head to remove the blindfold. A foot drives into his side, claw marks sprouting for toenails, and Stiles knows it’s Kali, forcing the air from his lungs as the claws penetrate his skin. He gasps and coughs and claws at the back of his head. Someone grabs a handful of his hair and slams his head against something hard. A scream of pain bursts from his mouth, and he feels dizzy.

Clumsily, Stiles fumbles along the side of his head to find the edge of the blindfold. He drags his heavy hand up, taking the blindfold with it, and blinks. The scene before him is sideways and bobs up and down. He sees someone running toward him and someone running away—Ethan. He grabs the railing next to him and hauls himself to his feet.

Kali wraps a hand around his throat and lifts him up, her clawed thumb wedged under his chin. Her hair, which is usually shiny and smooth, is tousled and sticks to her. Her face is contorted and her teeth are gritted, revealing fangs, her eyes glowing red, and she holds him over the chasm as spots appear on the edges of his vision, crowding around his face, green and pink and blue. She says nothing. He tries to kick her, but she moves fluidly, dodging him. His lungs scream for air.

He hears a shout, and she releases him.

He stretches out his arms as he falls, gasping, and his armpits slam into the railing. He hooks his elbows over it and groans. Mist touches his ankles. The world dips and sways around him, and someone is screaming. Aiden. Stiles hears thumps. Kicks. Groans.

He blinks a few times and focuses as hard as he can on the only face he can see. It is contorted with anger. His eyes are dark and familiar.

“Hale,” Stiles croaks.

He closes his eyes, and arms wrap around his wait. Hale pulls him over the railing and against his chest, gathering him into his arms, easing an arm under his knees. Stiles presses his face into his shoulder, and there is a sudden, hollow silence.

-

Stiles opens his eyes to the words “Fear Makes The Wolf Bigger Than He Is” painted on a plain dark wall. He hears the sound of running water again, but this time it’s from a faucet and not from the chasm. Seconds go by before Stiles sees definite edges in his surroundings, the lines of a door frame and countertop and ceiling.

The pain is a constant throb in his head and face and ribs. He shouldn’t move; it will make everything worse. He sees a dark green blanket under his head and winces as he tilts his head to see where the water sound is coming from. He feels a ruffle and brings his hand to his side and feels a large bandage cover it, sees another one on his arm where the claws swiped.

Hale stands in the bathroom with his hands in the sink. Blood from his knuckles turns the sink water pink. His eyes shine red, and he’s got blood on his cheek but there isn’t a wound, like it’s been healed and the blood is just resting on his face, but he seems otherwise unharmed. His expression is placid as he examines his hands, turns off the water, and dries his hands with a towel.

Stiles has only one memory of getting there, and even that is just a single image: black cloth curling around the side of a neck, the roundness of a tattoo, and the gentle sway that could only mean Hale was carrying him.

Hale turns off the bathroom light and gets an ice pack from the refrigerator in the corner of the room. As he walks toward Stiles, Stiles considers closing his eyes and pretending to be asleep, but then their eyes meet and it’s too late.

“Your hands,” he croaks.

“My hands are none of your concern,” Hale replies. He rests his knee on the mattress and leans over Stiles, slipping the ice pack under his head. Before he pulls away, Stiles reaches out to touch the blood on the side of his face but stops when he realize what he’s about to do, his hand hovering.

 _What do you have to lose?_ Stiles asks himself. He touches his fingertips lightly to his face. “Stiles,” Hale says, speaking lightly, and Stiles can feel his words through his fingertips, “I’m all right.”

“Why were you there?” Stiles asks, letting his hand drop.

“I was coming back from the training room. I heard a yell.”

“What did you do to them?” Stiles asks.

“I deposited Aiden at the infirmary a half hour ago,” he says. “Kali and Ethan ran. Aiden claimed they were just trying to scare you. At least, I think that’s what he was trying to say.”

“He’s in bad shape?”

“He’ll live,” Hale replies. He adds bitterly, “In what condition, I can’t say.”

It isn’t right to wish pain on other people just because they hurt Stiles first. But white-hot triumph races through him at the thought of Aiden in the infirmary, and he squeezes Hale’s arm.

“Why is he in the infirmary? I thought werewolves heal quickly.” Stiles asks.

“Wounds inflicted by an Alpha last longer. He’ll be in there for at least two day. That's why my hands haven't healed.” Hale says, rubbing his thumb across Stiles’s palm.

“Is that what you are? An Alpha?”

Hale flashes his eyes red at Stiles, and Stiles gasps lightly, “Yes.” Hale replies.

“Cool.” Stiles says. His voice sounds tight and fierce. Anger builds inside him, replacing his blood with bitter water and filling him, consuming him. He wants to yell.

Hale crouches by the side of the bed, and watches Stiles. Stiles sees no sympathy in his eyes. He would have been disappointed if he had. Hale pulls his wrist free and, to Stiles's surprise, rests his hand on the side of Stiles's face, his thumb skimming his cheekbone. His fingers are careful.

“I could report this,” he says.

“No,” Stiles says sternly. “I don’t want them to think I’m scared.”

Hale nods. He moves his thumb absently over Stiles’s cheekbone, back and forth. “I figured you would say that.”

“You think it would be a bad idea if I sat up?”

“I’ll help you.”

Hale grips his shoulder with one hand and holds his head steady with the other as Stiles pushes himself up. Pain rushes through his body in sharp bursts, but he tries to ignore it, stifling a groan.

Hale hands him the ice pack. “You can let yourself be in pain,” he says. “It’s just me here.”

Stiles bites down on his lip. There are tears on his face, but neither of them mentions or even acknowledges them.

“I suggest you rely on your transfer friends to protect you from now on,” Hale says.

“I thought I was,” Stiles groans. “But Kali. . .”

“She wanted you to be the small, quiet human from Idem,” Hale says softly. “She hurt you because your strength made her feel weak. No other reason.”

Stiles nods and tries to believe him.

“The others won’t be as jealous if you show some vulnerability. Even if it isn’t real.”

“You think I have to pretend to be vulnerable?” Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, I do.” Hale takes the ice pack from Stiles, his fingers brushing his, and holds it against his head himself. Stiles puts his hand down, too eager to relax his arm to object. He can see the puncture holes one of the wolves left on his arm. Hale stands up. Stiles stares at the hem of his T-shirt.

Sometimes, he sees Hale as just another person, and sometimes he feels the sight of him in his gut, like a deep ache.

“You’re going to want to march into breakfast tomorrow and show your attackers they had no effect on you,” he adds, “but you should let that bruise on your cheek show, and keep your head down.”

The idea nauseates him.

“I don’t think I can do that,” Stiles says hollowly. He lifts his eyes to Hale's.

“You have to.”

“I don’t think you get it.” Heat rises into his face. “They touched me.”

Hale’s entire body tightens at his words, his hand clenching around the ice pack. “ _Touched you_ ,” he repeats, his dark eyes cold.

“Not. . .in the way you’re thinking.” Stiles clears his throat. He didn’t realize when he said it how awkward it would be to talk about. “But. . .almost.”

Stiles has to look away.

Hale is silent and still for so long that eventually, Stiles has to say something.

“What is it?”

“I don’t want to say this,” he says, “but I feel like I have to. It is more important for you to be safe than right, for the time being. Understand?”

His eyebrows are drawn low over his eyes. Stiles's stomach writhes, partly because he knows Hale makes a good point but doesn’t want to admit it, and partly because he wants something Stiles doesn’t know how to express; he wants to press against the space between them until it disappears.

Stiles nods.

“But please, when you see an opportunity. . ." He presses his hand to Stiles’s cheek, cold and strong, and tilts his head up so Stiles has to look at him. His eyes glint. They look almost predatory. “Ruin them.”

Stiles laughs shakily. “You’re a little scary, Hale.”

“Do me a favor,” he says.

"What?" Stiles asks.

"Stop calling me 'Hale.'"

"What am I supposed to call you?" Stiles asks, confused.

"Nothing yet," Hale says, a smirk adding to his predatory glint, "but you'll find out soon.

Stiles just nods, making to roll over, his body feeling as though it's shutting down. But Hale stops him, “And one more thing. Make it past initiation."

Stiles bites back a small smile. “I intend too.”

 

Stiles doesn’t go back to the room that night. Sleeping in the same room as the people who attacked him just to look brave would be stupid. Hale sleeps on the floor and Stiles sleeps on his bed, on top of the blanket, breathing in the scent of his pillowcase. It smells like detergent and something heavy, sweet, and distinctly male.

The rhythm of Hale's breaths slows, and Stiles props himself up to see if he is asleep. Stiles remembers that he's not supposed to call him that now, but Hale's real name only adds to the mystery of who he is. He lies on his stomach with one arm around his head. His eyes are closed, his lips parted. For the first time, he looks as young as he is, and Stiles wonders who he really is. Who is he when he isn’t Valiant, isn’t an instructor, isn’t Hale, isn’t anything in particular?

Whoever he is, Stiles likes him. It’s easier for him to admit that to himself now, in the dark, after all that just happened. He is not sweet or gentle or particularly kind. But he is smart and brave, and even though he saved Stiles, he treated him like he was strong. That is all Stiles needs to know.

He watches the muscles in Hale's back expand and contract until he falls asleep.

He wakes to aches and pains. He cringes as he sits up, holding his ribs, and walks up to a small mirror on the opposite wall. He can see his face, and wants to cringe away at what he sees. As expected, there is a dark blue bruise on his cheek. He hates the idea of slumping into the dining hall like this, but Hale’s instructions have stayed with him. He needs the protection of seeming weak.

The door opens and Hale walks in, a towel in hand and his hair glistening with shower water. Stiles feels a thrill in his stomach when he sees the line of skin that shows above Hale's jeans as he lifts his hand to dry his hair and Stiles’s forces his eyes up to Hale's face.

“Hi,” He says. His voice sounds tight. He wishes it didn’t.

Hale touches his bruised cheek with just his fingertips. “Not bad,” he says. “How’s your head?”

“Fine,” Stiles says. He's lying—his head is throbbing. He brushes his fingers over the bump, and pain prickles over his scalp. It could be worse. He could be floating at the bottom of the chasm.

Every muscle in his body tightens as Hale's hand drops to his side, where he got kicked and clawed. Hale does it casually, but Stiles can’t move.

“And your side?” he asks, his voice low.

“Only hurts when I breathe.”

He smiles. “Not much you can do about that.”

“Kali would probably throw a party if I stopped breathing.”

“Well,” Hale says, “I would only go if Boyd was there.”

Stiles laughs, and then winces, covering Hale's hand with his own to steady his rib cage. Hale slides his hand back slowly, his fingertips grazing Stiles's side. When his fingers lift, Stiles feels an ache in his chest. Once this moment ends, he has to remember what happened last night. And he wants to stay here with Hale.

Halw nods a little and leads the way out.

“I’ll go in first,” he says when they stand outside the dining hall. “See you soon, Stiles.”

He walks through the doors and Stiles is alone. Yesterday, Hale told him he thought he would have to pretend to be weak, but he was wrong. Stiles is weak already. He braces himself against the wall and presses his forehead to his hands. It’s difficult to take deep breaths, so he takes short, shallow ones. He can’t let this happen. They attacked him to make me feel weak. He can pretend they succeeded to protect himself, but he can’t let it become true.

He pulls away from the wall and walks into the dining hall without another thought. A few steps in, he remembers he's supposed to look like he's cowering, so he slows his pace and hugs the wall, keeping his head down. Danny, at the table next to Scott and Allison’s, lifts his hand to wave at him. And then puts it down.

Stiles sits next to Lydia.

Ethan isn’t there—he isn’t anywhere, at least, from what Stiles can see.

Danny slides into the seat next to him, leaving his half-eaten muffin and half-finished glass of water on the other table. For a second, all of them, including Isaac and Jackson, stare at him.

“What happened?” Scott asks, lowering his voice.

He looks over his shoulder at the table behind theirs. Kali sits there, eating a piece of toast and whispering something to Ennis. Stiles's hand clenches around the edge of the table. He wants them to hurt. But now isn’t the time.

Aiden is missing, which means he’s still in the infirmary. Vicious pleasure courses through Stiles at the thought.

“Kali, Aiden. . .,” Stiles says quietly. He holds his side as he reaches across the table for a piece of toast. It hurts to stretch out his hand, the bandage on his arms pulling, so he lets himself wince and hunch over. “And. . .” he swallows. “And Ethan.”

“Oh God,” says Allison, her eyes wide.

“Are you alright?” Danny asks, his had a light weight at Stiles’s side.

Hale’s eyes find his across the dining hall, and he has to force himself to look away. It brings a bitter taste to his mouth to think about Kali and the twins, but he has to. Hale was right. He has to do everything he can to make sure he doesn’t get attacked again.

“Not really,” Stiles says.

His eyes burn, and it’s not artifice, unlike the wincing. He shrugs.

He feels uncomfortable, like he's wearing someone else’s skin. If he’s not careful, he could die. He can’t even trust the leaders of his sector. His new family.

“But you’re just. . . ” Danny purses his lips. He looks almost two seconds away from storming right over to Kali. Stiles puts a hand on him to steady him. “It isn’t fair. Three against one? And a human at that?”

“Yeah, and Kali is all about what’s fair. That’s why she threatened Stiles and choked him against a wall.” Scott snorts and shakes his head. “Ethan, though? Are you sure, Stiles? He didn’t seem to go along with Kali and Aiden.”

Stiles stares at his plate.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”

“It has to be desperation,” says Allison. “She’s been acting. . .I don’t know. Like a different person. Ever since stage two started.”

Then Aiden shuffles into the dining hall. Stiles drops his toast, and his mouth drifts open.

Calling him “bruised” would be an understatement. His face is swollen and purple. He has a split lip and a cut running through his eyebrow. He keeps his eyes down on the way to his table, not even lifting them to look at Sites. Stiles glances across the room at HALE. He wears the satisfied smile Stiles wishes he had on.

Aiden must have wanted to get out of the Sick Ward as soon as possible, judging by the way he only looks half healed.

“Did you do that?” hisses Isaac.

Stiles shakes his head. “No. Someone—I never saw who—found me right before. . .” he gulps.

Saying it out loud makes it worse, makes it real. “. . .I got tossed into the chasm.”

“They were going to kill you?” says Danny in a low voice.

“Maybe. They might have been planning on dangling me over it just to scare me.” Stiles lifts a shoulder. “It worked.”

Scott gives him a sad look. Allison looks shocked. Isaac just glares at the table. Lydia looks absolutely murderous. Even Jackson is glaring.

“We have to do something about this,” Danny says in a low voice.

“What, like beat them up?” Scott asks. “Looks like that’s been taken care of already.”

“No. That’s pain they can get over,” replies Danny. “We have to edge them out of the rankings. That will damage their futures. Permanently.”

Hale gets up and stands between the tables. Conversation abruptly ceases. “Transfers. We’re doing something different today,” he says. “Follow me.” They stand, and Danny’s forehead wrinkles.

“I’m staying with you today,” he tells Stiles.

“I’d feel better if you did.” Stiles smiles at him.

“Don’t worry,” says Lydia. “We’ll protect you.”

 

Hale leads them out of the dining hall and along the paths that surround the Hole. Danny is on his left, Scott is on his right. Everyone else, Lydia, Allison, Isaac, and Jackson, are hot on their heels. 

They climb higher than he's gone before, until Danny’s face goes white whenever he looks down. Most of the time Stiles like heights, so he grabs Danny’s arm like he needs his support —but really, Stiles is lending him his. Danny smiles gratefully at him and slips an arm around his waist.

Hale turns around and walks backward a few steps—backward, on a narrow path with no railing. How well does he know this place?

He eyes Aiden, who trudges at the back of the group, and says, “Pick up the pace, Aiden!”

It’s a cruel joke, but it’s hard for Stiles to fight off a smile. That is, until Hale’s eyes shift to his arm around Danny’s, and Danny's arm around his waist, and all the humor drains from his eyes. His expression sends a chill through Stiles. _Is he. . . jealous?_

The thought sends a thrill down Stiles’s spine.

They get closer and closer to the glass ceiling, and for the first time in days, Stiles sees the sun. Hale walks up a flight of metal stairs leading through a hole in the ceiling. They creak under Stiles’s feet, and he looks down to see the Hole and the chasm below him.

They walk across the glass, which is now a floor rather than a ceiling, through a cylindrical room with glass walls. The surrounding buildings are half-collapsed and appear to be abandoned, which is probably why Stiles never noticed the Valiant compound before. The Idem sector is so far away.

The Valiant mill around the glass room, talking in clusters. At the edge of the room, two Valiant fight with sticks, laughing when one of them misses and hits only air. Above Stiles, two ropes stretch across the room, one a few feet higher than the other. They probably have something to do with the daredevil stunts the Valiant are famous for.

Hale leads them through another door. Beyond it is a huge, dank space with graffitied walls and exposed pipes. The room is lit by a series of old-fashioned fluorescent tubes with plastic covers—they must be ancient.

“This,” says Hale, his eyes bright in pale light, “is a different kind of simulation known as the fear landscape. It has been disabled for our purposes, so this isn’t what it will be like the next time you see it.”

Behind him, the word “Valiant” is spray-painted in red artistic lettering on a concrete wall.

“Through your simulations, we have stored data about your worst fears. The fear landscape accesses that data and presents you with a series of virtual obstacles. Some of the obstacles will be fears you previously faced in your simulations. Some may be new fears. The difference is that you are aware, in the fear landscape, that it is a simulation, so you will have all your wits about you as you go through it.”

That means that everyone will be like Aberrant in the fear landscape. He doesn’t know if that’s a relief, because he can’t be detected, or a problem, because he won’t have the advantage.

Hale continues, “The number of fears you have in your landscape varies according to how many you have.”

How many fears will Stiles have? He thinks of facing the hawks again and shivers, through the air is warm.

“I told you before that the third stage of initiation focuses on mental preparation,” Hale says. Stiles remembers when he said that. On the first day. Right before he put a gun to Jackson’s head.

“That is because it requires you to control both your emotions and your body—to combine the physical abilities you learned in stage one with the emotional mastery you learned in stage two. To keep a level head.” One of the fluorescent tubes above Hale’s head twitches and flickers. Hale stops scanning the crowd of initiates and focuses his stare on Stiles.

“Next week you will go through your fear landscape as quickly as possible in front of a panel of Valiant leaders. That will be your final test, which determines your ranking for stage three. Just as stage two of initiation is weighted more heavily than stage one, stage three is weighted heaviest of all. Understood?”

Everyone nods. Even Aiden, who makes it look painful.

If he does well in his final test, Stiles has a good chance of making it into the top twenty and a good chance of becoming a member. Becoming Valiant. The thought makes him almost giddy with relief.

“You can get past each obstacle in one of two ways. Either you find a way to calm down enough that the simulation registers a normal, steady heartbeat, or you find a way to face your fear, which can force the simulation to move on. One way to face a fear of drowning is to swim deeper, for example.” Hale shrugs. “So I suggest that you take the next week to consider your fears and develop strategies to face them.”

“That doesn’t sound fair,” says Kali. “What if one person only has seven fears and someone else has twenty? That’s not their fault.”

Hale stares at her for a few seconds and then laughs. “Do you really want to talk to me about what’s fair?”

The crowd of initiates parts to make way for him as he walks toward Kali, folds his arms, and says, in a deadly voice, “I understand why you’re worried, Kali. The events of last night certainly proved that you are a miserable coward.”

Kali stares back, expressionless.

“So now we all know,” says Hale, quietly, “that you’re afraid of a weak, measly human from Idem.” His mouth curls in a smile.

Danny puts his arm around Stiles again. Scott’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. And somewhere within him, Stiles finds a smile too.

 

When they get back to the initiate room that afternoon, Ethan is there.

Danny stands behind him and holds his shoulders—lightly, as if to remind Stiles that he’s there. Scott edges closer to him.

Ethan’s eyes have shadows beneath them, and his face is swollen from crying. Pain stabs Stiles in the stomach when he sees him. He can’t move.

“Stiles” says Ethan, his voice breaking. “Can I talk to you?”

“Are you kidding?” Danny squeezes his shoulders. “You don’t get to come near him ever again.”

“I won’t hurt you. I never wanted to. . .” Ethan covers his face with both hands. “I just want to say that I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t. . .I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I. . .please forgive me, please. . .”

He reaches for Stiles like he’s going to touch his shoulder, or his hand, his face wet with tears.

Somewhere inside Stiles is a merciful, forgiving person. Somewhere, there is a boy who tries to understand what people are going through, who accepts that people do evil things and that desperation leads them to darker places than they ever imagined. Idem taught him that. But he’s not in Idem anymore. Stiles swears that boy exists, somewhere inside him, and he hurts for the repentant boy Stiles sees in front of him.

But if I saw that person inside him, he wouldn’t recognize them.

“I forgive you, Ethan. Not because you deserve it,” Stiles says pointedly, “but because I don’t want to have a guilty conscience when I beat you out of Valiant.”

Ethan exhales. But Stiles isn’t finished.

“Stay away from me,” He says quietly. His body feels rigid and cold, and he is not angry, not hurt, nothing. He says, his voice low, “Never come near me again.”

He meets Ethan’s eyes, sees that submission in them. His are dark and glassy.

“If you do, I swear to God, I will kill you,” Stiles says. “You coward.” And walks away without looking back.

-

“I heard about what you said to Ethan.” Hale says, coming up behind Stiles as he leans against the railing of the chasm, where everything started. “Pretty courageous of you.”

“Yeah, courageous. Just like showing everyone how human I am.” Stiles scoffs.

“Humanity is a gift, Stiles. Everyone needs to show a little more humanity. Being human is given, but having humanity is a choice everyone makes.” Hale responds, and he’s so close that he can whisper the words in Stiles’s ear.

“I see humans, but no humanity.” Stiles responds.

“You see humans? Are there some here I’m not aware of?” Hale chuckles.

Stiles scoffs, “You know, I really don’t have time to be laughed at again today, so if you’ll just - “ He begins, moving to step around Hale. He meant his words as something bigger, maybe even targeted at society, and now Hale is making fun of him.

“Hey, no. I didn’t mean it like that, Stiles.” Hale says, grabbing Stiles’s arm and pulling him back. It’s surprisingly gentle, something Stiles wasn’t expecting.

“What do you want, Hale?” Stiles asks. He doesn’t really want to leave Hale, likes being in his presence, but he’s drained from the day.

“I came to talk to you about something. Something important.” Hale says, pulling both of them away from the railing. They stand by the dark rocks of the wall, where no one can see them. It’s too loud with the echoing of the rushing water of the chasm, so no one will hear them either.

“They are watching you. You, in particular.”

“What?” Stiles asks. "Are they watching you, too?”

Hale doesn’t answer his question. “I keep trying to help you,” he says, “but you refuse to be helped.”

“Oh, right. Your help,” Stiles says. “Stabbing my ear with a knife and taunting me and yelling at me more than you yell at anyone else, it sure is helpful.”

“Taunting you? You mean when I threw the knives? I wasn’t taunting you,” he says. “I was reminding you that if you failed, someone else would have to take your place.”

Stiles cups the back of his neck with his hand and thinks back to the knife incident. Every time Hale spoke, it was to remind him that if he gave up, Malia would have to take his place in front of the target.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because you’re from Idem,” he says, “and it’s when you’re acting submissively that you are at your bravest.”

 Stiles understands now. Hale wasn’t persuading him to give up. He was reminding him why he couldn’t—because he needed to protect Malia.

“If I were you, I would do a better job of pretending that submissive impulse is going away,” he says, “because if the wrong people discover it. . .well, it won’t be good for you.”

“Why? Why do they care about my intentions?”

“Intentions are the only thing they care about. They try to make you think they care about what you do, but they don’t. They don’t want you to act a certain way. They want you to think a certain way. So you’re easy to understand. So you won’t pose a threat to them.” Hale presses a hand to the wall next to Stiles's head and leans into it. His shirt is just tight enough that Stiles can see his collarbone and the faint depression between his shoulder muscle and his bicep.

Stiles wishes he was taller, broader. He’s almost as tall as Hale, but if he was tall, his narrow build would be described as “willowy” instead of “childish,” and Hale might not see him as a little brother he needs to protect.

Stiles doesn’t want Hale to see him as his brother.

“I don’t understand,” Stiles says, “why they care what I think, as long as I’m acting how they want me to.”

“You’re acting how they want you to now,” he says, “but what happens when your Idem-wired brain tells you to do something else, something they don’t want?”

He doesn’t have an answer to that, and he doesn’t even know if Hale's right about him. Is he wired like the Idem, or the Valiant?

Maybe the answer is neither. Maybe he is wired like the Aberrants.

“I might not need you to help me. Ever think about that?” he says. “I’m not weak, you know. I can do this on my own.”

Hale shakes his head. “You think my first instinct is to protect you. Because you’re human, or a younger boy, or a Squatter. But you’re wrong.”

He leans his face close to Stiles and wraps his fingers around his chin. His hand smells like metal. When was the last time he held a gun, or a knife? Stiles's skin tingles at the point of contact, like Hale’s transmitting electricity through his skin.

“My first instinct is to push you until you break, just to see how hard I have to press,” he says, his fingers squeezing at the word “break.” Stiles's body tenses at the edge in his voice, so he is coiled as tight as a spring, and he forgets to breathe.

Hale's dark eyes lifting to Stiles's, he adds, “But I resist it.”

“Why. . .” Stiles swallows hard. “Why is that your first instinct?”

“Fear doesn’t shut you down; it wakes you up. I’ve seen it. It’s fascinating.” He releases Stiles but doesn’t pull away, his hand grazing his jaw, his neck. “Sometimes I just. . . want to see it again. Want to see you awake.”

Stiles sets his hands on Hale's waist. He can’t remember deciding to do that. But he also can’t move away. He pulls myself against Hale's chest, wrapping his arms around him. His fingers skim the muscles of Hale's back.

After a moment, Hale touches the small of his back, pressing him closer, and smoothes his other hand over Stiles's hair. Stiles feels small, pressed up against someone as muscular as Hale, but it doesn’t scare him. He squeezes his eyes shut. Hale doesn’t scare him anymore.

“Should I be crying?” Stiles asks, his voice muffled by Hale's shirt. “Is there something wrong with me?”

The simulations drove a crack through Ethan so wide he could not mend it. Why not Stiles? Why is he not like Ethan or Kali—and why does that thought make him feel so uneasy, like he's teetering on a ledge himself?

“You think I know anything about tears?” Hale asks quietly.

Stiles closes his eyes. He doesn’t expect Hale to reassure him, and he makes no effort to, but he feels better standing there than he did out there among the people who are his friends, his faction. Stiles presses his forehead to Hale's shoulder.

“Was it wrong of me to forgive him?”

“I don’t know,” Hale replies. He presses his hand to Stiles's cheek, and Stiles turns his face into it, keeping his eyes closed.

“I feel like it’s my fault.”

“It isn’t your fault,” he says, touching his forehead to Stiles's.

“But I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have forgiven him."

“Maybe. Maybe you just confirmed your spot in the top twenty,” he says, “but we just have to let the guilt remind us to do better next time.”

Stiles frowns and pulls back. That’s a lesson that members of Idem learn—guilt as a tool, rather than a weapon against everyone else, like good submissives do. It is a line straight from one of his father’s lectures when Stiles would get in trouble.

“What sector did you come from?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replies, his eyes lowered. “This is where I am now. Something you would do well to remember for yourself.”

He gives Stiles a conflicted look and touches his lips to Stiles's forehead, right between his eyebrows. Stiles closes his eyes. He doesn’t understand this, whatever it is. But he doesn’t want to ruin it, so he says nothing. Hale doesn’t move; he just stays there with his mouth pressed to Stiles's skin, and Stiles stay there with his hands on his waist, because this is the best Stiles has felt since he got to Valiant. And they stay like that, for a long time.

-

Stiles walks towards the initiate room, on his way back from getting another tattoo. Danny prodded him, saying he was perfectly capable of pressing the needles into Stiles’s skin, and Stiles had caved.

They were the only ones in the parlor, so Stiles felt safe getting the Idem symbol, two hands holding together in prayer, tattooed on the inside of his hip bone. He had raised his shirt to show Danny where he wanted it, self-conscious at having his bare chest exposed, but Danny’s eyes had been heavy on his skin, and when Stiles had caught him, Danny had blushed and looked away muttering that he thought Stiles was beautiful.

Stiles doesn’t really know what to think about that.

He kind of feels like he’s betraying Hale in a way, because, although they aren’t together, him and Hale are something, Stiles just doesn’t know what.

But he liked hearing the compliment from Danny. It him feel good.

He’s thinking about it as he walks with Danny, putting some distance between them, lost in thought, and sees movement on the right side of the Hole. A figure climbs toward the glass ceiling, and judging by the smooth way he walks, like his feet barely leave the ground, Stiles knows it’s Hale.

“I think you should put Kali’s hand in a bowl of water to make her pee herself or something.” Danny says, chuckling, but Stiles isn’t really paying attention.

“That sounds great, but I have to talk to Hale about something,” Stiles says, pointing toward the shadow ascending the path. Danny's eyes follow his hand.

“Are you sure you should be running around here alone at night?” he asks.

“I won’t be alone. I’ll be with Hale.” Stiles bites his lip.

Danny just looks back at him, and Stiles can see something in his eyes, but he blinks and then it’s gone.

“All right,” Danny says distantly. “Well, I’ll see you later, then.”

Danny walks toward the rooms, occasionally looking back at Stiles, like he’s afraid he won’t be there is Danny doesn’t look. For a second, Stiles watch him. He likes Danny, really he does. But it’s more of a like among friends, not like how he likes Hale. He doesn’t just want to be Hale’s friend. He wants be more. He could never do that with Danny.

He looks away from Danny and makes his way towards the right side of the Hole.

He jogs to the path on the right side of the Hole and starts to climb. He tries to make his footsteps as quiet as possible. Unlike anyone from Probity, he doesn’t find it difficult to lie. He doesn’t intend to talk to Hale—at least, not until he finds out where he’s going, late at night, in the glass building above him.

Stiles runs quietly, breathless when he reach the stairs, and stands at one end of the glass room while Hale stands at the other. Through the windows, he sees the city lights, glowing now but petering out even as he looks at them. They are supposed to turn off at midnight.

Across the room, Hale stands at the door to the fear landscape. He holds a black box in one hand and a syringe in the other. 

“Since you’re here,” he says, without looking over his shoulder, “you might as well go in with me.”

Stiles bites his lip. “Into your fear landscape?”

“Yes.”

As he walks towards him, he asks, “I can do that?”

“The serum connects you to the program,” Hale says, “but the program determines whose landscape you go through. And right now, it’s set to put us through mine.”

“You would let me see that?”

“Why else do you think I’m going in?” he asks quietly. He doesn’t lift his eyes. “There are some things I want to show you.”

“I saw you talking to that Valiant-born boy again,” Hale continues, “Anything going on there?”

He sounds like he’s trying to sound casual, but he’s failing at hiding the hope in his voice that Stiles will say no, “What, Danny? No. Why? You jealous?” Stiles smirks.

“Yes, actually.” Hale says, but doesn’t elaborate. Stiles grins at his back, before trying to wipe it from his face. He likes knowing that Hale was jealous.

Hale holds up the syringe, and Stiles tilts his head to better expose his neck. He feels sharp pain when the needle goes in, but he’s used to it now. When Hale’s done, he offers Stiles the black box. In it is another syringe.

“I’ve never done this before,” Stiles says as he takes it out of the box. He doesn’t want to hurt Hale.

“Right here,” Hale says, touching a spot on his neck with his fingernail. Stiles stands on his tiptoes to see better and pushes the needle in, his hand shaking a little. Hale doesn’t even flinch.

He keeps his eyes on Stiles the whole time, and when Stiles is done, puts both syringes in the box and sets it by the door. He knew that Stiles would follow him up here. Knew, or hoped. Either way is fine with him.

He offers Stiles his hand, and he slides his into it. Hale's fingers are cold and brittle. He feels like there is something he should say, but he is too stunned and can’t come up with any words. Hale opens the door with his free hand, and Stiles follows him into the dark. He is now used to entering unknown places without hesitation. He keeps his breaths even and holds firmly to Hale’s hand.

“See if you can figure out where I’m from,” he says.

Stiles give him a confused look, but inside, he’s lighting up. Hale is sharing with him lots of new personal things, which means he trusts Stiles, and Stiles can’t help but smile at that.

The door clicks shut behind them, taking all the light with it. The air is cold in the hallway;he feels each particle enter his lungs. He inches closer to Hale so his arm is against his and his chin is near Hale’s shoulder.

“Who are you, Hale?” Stiles asks.

“See if you can figure that out too.”

The simulation takes us. The ground Stiles stands on is no longer made of cement. It creaks like metal. Light pours in from all angles, and the city unfolds around them, glass buildings and the arc of train tracks, and they are high above it. He hasn’t seen a blue sky in a long time, so when it spreads out above him, he feels the breath catch in his lungs and the effect is dizzying.

Then the wind starts. It blows so hard he has to lean against Hale to stay on his feet. Hale removes his hand from Stiles's and wraps his arm around Stiles's shoulders instead. At first, Stiles thinks it’s to protect him—but no, he’s having trouble breathing and he needs Stiles to steady him. He forces breath in and out through an open mouth and his teeth are clenched.

The height is beautiful to Stiles, but if it’s here, it is one of his worst nightmares. “We have to jump off, right?” he shouts over the wind.

Hale nods.

“On three, okay?”

Another nod.

“One. . .two. . .three!” He pulls Hale with him as he bursts into a run. After they take the first step, the rest is easy. They both sprint off the edge of the building. They fall like two stones, fast, the air pushing back at them, the ground growing beneath them. Then the scene disappears, and he is on his hands and knees on the floor, grinning. He loved that rush the day he chose Valiant, and he loves it now.

Next to him, Hale gasps and presses a hand to his chest. He gets up and helps him to his feet. “What’s next?”

“It’s—”

Something solid hits Stiles's spine. He slams into Hale, like he did on the train when they were playing rescue the damsel, his head colliding with Hale's. Walls appear on his left and his right. The space is so narrow that Hale has to pull his arms into his chest to fit. A ceiling slams onto the walls around them with a crack, and Hale hunches over, groaning. The room is just big enough to accommodate his size, and no bigger.

“Confinement,” Stiles says.

Hale makes a guttural noise. Stiles tilts his head and pulls back enough to look at him. He can barely see his face, it’s so dark, and the air is close; they share breaths. Hale grimaces like he’s in pain.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “It’s okay. Here—”

He guides Hale’s arms around his body so he has more space. He clutches at Stiles's back and puts his face next to Stiles's, still hunched over. His body is warm, but Stiles feels only his bones and the muscle that wraps around them; nothing yields beneath him. Stiles's cheeks get hot. Can Hale tell that he's still built like a human?

“This is the first time I’m happy I’m so narrow.” Stiles laughs. If he jokes, maybe he can calm Hale down. And distract himself.

“Mmhmm,” Hale says. His voice sounds strained.

“We can’t break out of here,” Stiles says. “It’s easier to face the fear head on, right?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “So what you need to do is make the space smaller. Make it worse so it gets better. Right?”

“Yes.” It is a tight, tense little word.

“Okay. We’ll have to crouch, then. Ready?”

Stiles squeeze his waist to pull Hale down with him. He feels the hard line of his rib against his hand and hears the screech of one metal plank against another as the ceiling inches down with them. Stiles realizes that they won’t fit with all the space between them, so he turns and curls into a ball, his spine against Hale’s chest. One of his knees is bent next to his head and the other is curled beneath him so he's sitting on Hale's ankle. They’re a jumble of limbs. He feels a harsh breath against his ear.

“Ah,” he says, his voice raspy. “This is worse. This is definitely. . .”

“Shh,” Stiles says. “Arms around me.”

Obediently, Hale slips both arms around his waist. Stiles smiles at the wall. _I am not enjoying this. I am not, not even a little bit, no._

“The simulation measures your fear response,” he says softly. He’s just repeating what Hale told them, but reminding him might help him. “So if you can calm your heartbeat down, it will move on to the next one. Remember? So try to forget that we’re here.”

“Yeah?” He feels Hale's lips move against his ear as he speaks, and heat courses through his body. “That easy, huh?”

“You know, most guys would enjoy being trapped in close quarters with someone close to their crotch.” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

“Not claustrophobic people, Stiles!” He sounds desperate now.

“Okay, okay.” Stiles sets his hand on top of Hale's and guides it to his chest, so it’s right over his heart. “Feel my heartbeat. Can you feel it?”

“Yes.”

“Feel how steady it is?”

“It’s fast.”

“Yes, well, that has nothing to do with the box.” Stiles winces as soon as he's done speaking. He just admitted to something. Hopefully Hale doesn’t realize that. “Every time you feel me breathe, you breathe. Focus on that.”

“Okay.”

He breathes deeply, and his chest rises and falls with Stiles's. After a few seconds of this, Stiles says calmly, “Why don’t you tell me where this fear comes from. Maybe talking about it will help us. . .somehow.”

He doesn’t know how, but it sounds right.

“Um. . .okay.” Hale breathes with him again. “This one is from my fantastic childhood. I was locked in a crate for three days once, unable to shift back from my wolf form."

Stiles presses his lips together in shock. The cruelty smarts; his chest aches for Hale. He doesn’t know what to say, so he tries to keep it casual.

“I once saw a crate on my way back home. It was broken, but a dog still slept in it.”

 “I don’t. . .” He gasps. “I don’t really want to talk about it anymore.”

“Okay. Then. . .I can talk. Ask me something.”

“Okay.” He laughs shakily in Stiles's ear. “Why is your heart racing, Stiles?”

He cringes and says, “Well, I. . .” He searches for an excuse that doesn’t involve Hale's arms being around him. “I barely know you.” Not good enough. “I barely know you and I’m crammed up against you in a box, Hale, what do you think?”

“If we were in your fear landscape,” he says, “would I be in it?”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Of course you’re not. But that’s not what I meant.”

He laughs again, and when he does, the walls break apart with a crack and fall away, leaving them in a circle of light. Hale sighs and lifts his arms from Stiles's body. He scrambles to his feet and brushes himself off, though he hasn’t accumulated any dirt that he's aware of. He wipes his palms on his black jeans. His back feels cold from the sudden absence of Hale.

Hale stands in front of him. He’s grinning, and Stiles isn't sure he likes the look in his eyes. “Maybe you were cut out for Probity,” he says, “because you’re a terrible liar.”

“I think my aptitude test ruled that one out pretty well.”

He shakes his head. “The aptitude test tells you nothing.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “What are you trying to tell me? Your test isn’t the reason you ended up Valiant?”

Excitement runs through him like the blood in his veins, propelled by the hope that he might find out more about Hale.

“Not exactly, no,” he says. “I. . .”

He looks over his shoulder and his voice trails off. A woman stands a few yards away, pointing a gun at them. She is completely still, her features plain—if they walked away right now, Stiles would not remember her. To his right, a table appears. On it is a gun and a single bullet. Why isn’t she shooting them?

 _Oh_ , Stiles thinks. _The fear is unrelated to the threat to his life. It has to do with the gun on the table._

“You have to kill her,” He says softly.

“Every single time.”

“She isn’t real.”

“She looks real.” Hale bites his lip. “It feels real.”

“If she was real, she would have killed you already.”

“It’s okay.” He nods. “I’ll just. . .do it. This one’s not. . .not so bad. Not as much panic involved.”

Not as much panic, but far more dread. Stiles can see it in his eyes as he picks up the gun and opens the chamber like he’s done it a thousand times—and maybe he has. He clicks the bullet into the chamber and holds the gun out in front of him, both hands around it. He squeezes one eye shut and breathes slowly in.

As he exhales, he fires, and the woman’s head whips back. Stiles sees a flash of red and looks away. He hears her crumple to the floor.

Hale’s gun drops with a thump. They stare at her fallen body. What he said is true—it does feel real. Don’t be ridiculous. Stiles grabs his arm.

“C’mon,” Stiles says. “Let’s go. Keep moving.”

After another tug, Hale comes out of his daze and follows him. As they pass the table, the woman’s body disappears, except in Stiles's memory and his. What would it be like to kill someone every time he went through his landscape? Maybe he’ll find out.

But something puzzles him: These are supposed to be Hale’s worst fears. And though he panicked in the box and on the roof, he killed the woman without much difficulty. It seems like the simulation is grasping at any fears it can find within him, and it hasn’t found much.

“Here we go,” he whispers.

A dark figure moves ahead of them, creeping along the edge of the circle of light, waiting for them to take another step. Who is it? Who frequents Hale’s nightmares?

The woman who emerges is tall and slim, with blonde hair cut close to her cleavage. She holds her hands behind her back. And she wears the blue clothes of the Tutelage.

“Who are you?” Stiles whispers.

“Here’s the part,” Hale says, his voice shaking, “where you figure out why I transferred.”

“Who is she?” Stiles asks, but Hale isn’t looking at him, only at the woman in front of him.

“C’mon, Derek. It’ll be fun.” She laughs, walking towards them. Derek? Who the hell is Derek?

Stiles can hear screams, and suddenly, the room is filled with thick, black smoke.

He coughs on it, trying to breathe. The woman laughs, the sound ringing in Stiles’s ears.

“Have you been a good boy, Derek? Do I need to lock you in the crate again?” She says, taunting. Stiles looks at Hale, but all he sees is a wide-eyed look.

“I know you want my body, Derek,” She continues, groping her own breasts, “All you have to do is reach out and touch.”

“No! Stop, Kate!” Hale shouts, his eyes shining red.

“You don’t have a choice, baby wolf.” She says, and lunges. She comes up close to Hale, licks the shell of his ear, and runs her hand down his chest, resting just above his clothed crotch.

Kate shows them her hands. A whip is curled around one of her fists. Slowly, she unwinds it from her fingers.

“This is for your own good, Derek. You’ve been awfully naughty lately.” She says, and her voice echoes a dozen times.

A dozen Kates press into the circle of light, all holding the same whip  with the same blank expression. When the Kates blink again, their eyes turn into empty, black pits. The whips slither along the floor, which is now white tile. A shiver crawls up Stiles's spine. Gerard’s daughter was accused of raping boys. For once, the Tutelage were right.

And Gerard’s son, Chris Argent, was the one who accused him.

This must be his sister. This must be Kate Argent, who is Allison Argent’s aunt.

But Kate wasn’t just accused of raping any boy, she was accused of raping the _Hales._

Stiles feels his mouth open in a gasp.

The man standing in front of Stiles, cowering in fear, is Derek. _Derek_ Hale.

He looks at _Derek_ , and he seems frozen. His posture sags. He looks years older; he looks years younger. The first Kate yanks his arm back, the whip sailing over her shoulder as she prepares to strike. Derek shrinks back, throwing his arms up to protect his face.

Stiles darts in front of him and the whip cracks against his wrist, wrapping around it. A hot pain races up Stiles's arm to his elbow. He grits his teeth and pulls as hard as he can. Kate loses her grip, so he unwraps the belt and grabs it by the handle.

Stiles swings his arm as fast as he can, his shoulder socket burning from the sudden motion, and the whip strikes Kate’s shoulder. She screams and lunges at him with outstretched hands, with fingernails that look like claws. Derek pushes Stiles behind him so he stands between him and Kate. He looks angry, not afraid.

All the Kates vanish. The lights come on, revealing a long, narrow room with busted brick walls and a cement floor.

“That’s it?” Stiles says. “Those were your worst fears? Why do you only have four. . .” His voice trails off. Only four fears.

The words leave him when he sees Derek's expression. His eyes are wide and seem almost vulnerable under the room’s lights. His lips are parted. If they were not here, Stiles would describe the look as awe. But he doesn’t understand why he would be looking at him in awe.

Derek wraps his hand around Stiles's elbow, his thumb pressing to the soft skin above his forearm, and tugs him toward his chest. The skin around his wrist still stings, like the whip was real, but it’s as pale as the rest of him, besides the dark tattoo on his pulse point. Derek's lips slowly move against his cheek, then his arms tighten around Stiles’s shoulders, and he buries his face in his neck, breathing against his collarbone.

Stiles stands stiffly for a second and then loop his arms around Derek and sighs.

“Hey,” he says softly. “We got through it.”

Derek lifts his head and slips his fingers through his hair, moving it off his forehead. They stare at each other in silence. His fingers move absently over his hair.

“You got me through it,” Derek says finally.

“Well.” His throat is dry. He tries to ignore the nervous electricity that pulses through him every second Derek touches him. “It’s easy to be brave when they’re not my fears.”

He lets his hands drop and casually wipes them on his jeans, hoping Derek doesn’t notice. If he does, he doesn’t say so. He laces his fingers with Stiles ’s own.

“Come on,” he says. “I have something else to show you.” 

- 

Hand in hand, they walk toward the Hole. Stiles monitors the pressure of his hand carefully. One minute, he feels like he's not gripping hard enough, and the next, he's squeezing too hard. He never used to understand why people bothered to hold hands as they walked, but then Derek runs one of his fingertips down his palm, and Stiles shivers and understand it completely.

“So. . .” He latches on to the last logical thought he remembers. “Four fears.”

“Four fears then; four fears now,” he says, nodding. “They haven’t changed, so I keep going in there, but. . .I still haven’t made any progress.”

“You can’t be fearless, remember?” Stiles says, swinging their hands. “Because you still care about things. About your life.”

“I know.”

They walk along the edge of the Hole on a narrow path that leads to the rocks at the bottom of the chasm. He never noticed it before—it blended in with the rock wall. But Derek seems to know it well.

He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, but he has to know about his aptitude test.

“You were going to tell me about your aptitude test results,” Stiles says.

“Ah.” He scratches the back of his neck with his free hand. “Does it matter?”

“Yes. I want to know.”

“How demanding you are.” He smiles.

They reach the end of the path and stand at the bottom of the chasm, where the rocks form unsteady ground, rising up at harsh angles from the rushing water. Derek leads him up and down, across small gaps and over angular ridges. Stiles's shoes cling to the rough rock. The soles of his boots mark each rock with a wet footprint.

Derek finds a relatively flat rock near the side, where the current isn’t strong, and sits down, his feet dangling over the edge. Stiles sits beside him. He seems comfortable there, inches above the hazardous water.

Derek releases his hand. Stiles looks at the jagged edge of the rock, remembering Kali and the twins.

“These are things I don’t tell people, you know. Not even my friends,” Derek says.

Stiles laces his fingers together and clenches them. This is the perfect place for Derek to tell him. The roar of the chasm ensures that they won’t be overheard, like when Derek warned him about the Valiant watching him, a grateful thing in a compound full of werewolves. He doesn’t know why the thought makes him so nervous.

“My result was as expected,” Derek says. “Idem.”

“Oh.”

But—Stiles had assumed that if he was not Aberrant, he must have gotten a Valiant result. And technically, Stiles also got an Idem result—according to the system. Did the same thing happen to him? And if that’s true, why isn’t Derek telling him the truth?

“But you chose Valiant anyway?” Stiles asks.

“Out of necessity.”

“Why did you have to leave?”

His eyes dart away from Stiles's, across the space in front of him, as if searching the air for an answer. He doesn’t need to give one. Stiles stills feel the ghost of a stinging whip on his wrist.

“You had to get away from Kate,” Stiles says.

“She burned my entire family to the ground, save me and my two sisters, my mom, who I haven't even seen since I left, and our comatose uncle who’s still in the Sick Ward, all because she said werewolves weren’t submissive enough to her.”

Stiles’s throat swells, and he clenches his fingers harder, looking at Derek, “That’s terrible, Derek.”

He doesn’t really know what else to say, can tell Derek doesn’t want his sympathy, so he just asks questions.

“Is that why you don’t want to be a Valint leader? Because if you were, you might have to see her again? Because of Gerard?”

Derek lifts a shoulder. “That, and I’ve always felt that I don’t quite belong among the Valiant. Not the way they are now, anyway.”

“But you’re. . .incredible,” Stiles says. He pauses and clears his throat, realizing what he said. “I mean, by Valiant standards. Four fears is unheard of. How could you not belong here?”

Derek shrugs. He doesn’t seem to care about his talent, or his status among the Valiant, and that is what Stiles would expect from the Idem. He’s not sure what to make of that.

Derek says, “I have a theory that submissiveness and bravery aren’t all that different. All your life you’ve been training to forget yourself, so when you’re in danger, it becomes your first instinct. I could belong in Idem just as easily.”

Suddenly, Stiles feels heavy. A lifetime of training wasn’t enough for him. His first instinct is still self-servitude.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles says, “I left Idem because I wasn’t submissive enough, no matter how hard I tried to be.”

“That’s not entirely true.” Derek smiles at him. “That boy who let someone throw knives at him to spare a friend, who hit Kate with a whip to protect me—that submissive boy, that’s not you?”

Derek’s figured out more about him than he himself has. And even though it seems impossible that Derek could feel something for him, given all that he's not. . .maybe it isn’t. Stiles frowns at him. “You’ve been paying close attention, haven’t you?”

“I like to observe people. You’re a lot more selfless, and submissive, than you think, Stiles, even for a human.”

“Maybe you were cut out for Probity, Derek, because you’re a terrible liar.”

Derek puts his hand on the rock next to him, his fingers lining up with Stiles's. Stiles looks down at their hands. He has long, narrow fingers. Hands made for fine, deft movements. Not Valiant hands, which should be thick and tough and ready to break things.

“Fine.” Derek leans his face closer to Stiles's, his eyes focusing on his chin, and his lips, and his nose. “I watched you because I like you.” He says it plainly, boldly, and his eyes flick up to meet Stiles's.

Just like that, he has finally declared himself, and Stiles doesn’t know how to respond. His cheeks are warm, and all he can think to say is, “But you’re older than I am. . .Derek.”

Derek smiles at him. “Yes, that whopping four-year age gap really is _insurmountable_ , isn’t it?”

“I’m not trying to be self-deprecating,” Stiles says, “I just don’t get it. I’m younger. I’m not attractive. I—”

Derek laughs, a deep laugh that sounds like it came from deep inside him, and touches his lips to Stiles's temple.

“Don’t pretend,” Stiles says breathily. “You know I’m not. I’m not ugly, but I am certainly not pretty.”

“Stiles, you’re the most attractive person I’ve ever met.” He kisses his cheek. “I like how you look. You’re deadly smart. You’re brave. And even though you found out about Kate. . .” His voice softens. “You aren’t giving me that look. Like I’m a kicked puppy or something.”

“Well,” Stiles says. “You’re not.”

For a second his dark eyes are on Stiles's, and he’s quiet. Then he touches Stiles's face and leans in close, brushing Stiles's lips with his. The river roars and Stiles feels its spray on his ankles. Derek grins and presses his mouth to Stiles's.

Stiles tenses up at first, unsure of himself, so when Derek pulls away, he's sure he did something wrong, or badly. But Derek takes his face in his hands, his fingers strong against Stiles’s skin, and kisses him again, firmer this time, more certain. Stiles's wraps an arm around him, sliding his hand up his neck and into his black hair.

For a few minutes, they kiss, deep in the chasm, with the roar of water all around them. And when they rise, hand in hand, Stiles realizes that if they had both chosen differently, they might have ended up doing the same thing, in a safer place, in barely-there clothes instead of black ones.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spacing in my chapter is weird, so I'm editing them as I go.
> 
> UPDATE
> 
> I think everything is fixed, but still let me know so I can fix it. Thanks!

The nest morning, Stiles can’t stop smiling. Every time he pushes the smile from his face, it fights its way back. Eventually, he stops suppressing it. He slips on a tight t-shirt, like he’s seen Derek in multiple times, and gets up to walk with Scott to breakfast.

“What is it with you today?” asks Scott on the way. His eyes are still puffy from sleep and his dark hair is pressed tight against his forehead.

“Oh, you know,” Stiles says. “Sun shining. Birds chirping.”

Scott raises an eyebrow at him, as if reminding him that they are in an underground tunnel.

“Let the boy be in a good mood,” Allison says. “You may never see it again.”

Stiles smacks her arm and hurries toward the dining hall. His heart pounds because he knows that at some point in the next half hour, he will see Derek. He sits down in his usual place, next to Danny, with Scott and Allison across from them, Isaac and Lydia on his right, and Jackson sitting next to Allison. The seat on his left between him and Isaac stays empty. He wonders if Derek will sit in it; if he’ll grin at Stiles over breakfast; if he’ll look at Stiles in that secret, stolen way that he imagines himself looking at Derek with.

He grabs a piece of toast from the plate in the middle of the table and starts to butter it with a little too much enthusiasm. He feels himself acting like a lunatic, but he can’t stop. It would be like refusing to breathe.

Then he walks in. Stiles smiles at Derek as he walks, lifting his hand to wave him over, but Derek sits down next to Boyd and Erica without even glancing in Stiles's direction, so he lets his hand drop.

He stares at his toast. It's easy not to smile now.

“Something wrong?” asks Danny through a mouthful of toast.

Stiles shakes his head and take a bite. What did he expect? Just because they kissed doesn’t mean anything changes. Maybe Derek changed his mind about liking him. Maybe he thinks kissing Stiles was a mistake.

“Today’s fear landscape day,” says Lydia. “You think we’ll get to see our own fear landscapes?”

“No.” Danny shakes his head. “You go through one of the instructors’ landscapes. Boyd told Erica, and then Erica told me.”

“Ooh, which instructor?” says Allison, suddenly perking up.

“You know, it really isn’t fair that you all get insider information and we don’t,” Jackson says, glaring playfully at Danny.

“Like you wouldn’t use an advantage if you had one,” retorts Danny.

Allison ignores them. “I hope it’s Hale’s landscape.”

“Why?” Stiles asks. The question comes out too incredulous. He bites his lip and wishes he could take it back. He just doesn’t want anyone to see that part of Derek, wants to keep it to himself.

“Looks like someone had a mood swing.” She rolls her eyes. “Like you don’t want to know what his fears are. He acts so tough that he’s probably afraid of water and really bright sunrises or something. Overcompensating.”

Stiles shakes his head. “It won’t be him.” 

“How would you know?”

“It’s just a prediction.”

He remembers Kate in Derek's fear landscape. He wouldn’t let everyone see that. Stiles glances at him. For a second, his eyes shift to Stiles’s over Erica’s head. His stare is unfeeling. Then he looks away.

And Stiles feels his heart skip a beat.

 

Paige, one of the instructors of the Valiant-born initiates, stands with her hands on her hips outside the fear landscape room.

“Two years ago,” she says, “I was afraid of spiders, suffocation, walls that inch slowly inward and trap you between them, getting thrown out of Valiant, uncontrollable bleeding, getting run over by a train, my father’s death, public humiliation, and kidnapping by men without faces.”

Everyone stares blankly at her.

“Most of you will have anywhere from ten to fifteen fears in your fear landscapes. That is the average number,” she says.

“What’s the lowest number someone has gotten?” asks Danny.

“In recent years,” says Paige, “four.”

Stiles hasn't looked at Derek since they were in the dining hall, but he can’t help but look at him now. Derek keeps his eyes trained on the floor. Stiles knew that four was a low number, but he didn’t know it was less than half the average.

Stiles glares at his feet. Derek’s exceptional. And now he won’t even look at him.

“You will not find out your number today,” says Paige. “The simulation is set to my fear landscape program, so you will experience my fears instead of your own.”

Stiles gives Allison a pointed look. He was right; they won’t go through Derek’s landscape.

“For the purposes of this exercise, though, each of you will only face one of my fears, to get a sense for how the simulation works.”

Paige points to them at random and assigns everyone a fear. He was standing in the back with Scott and Allison, so he will go close to last. The fear that she assigned to him was kidnapping.

Because he's not hooked up to the computer as he waits, he can’t watch the simulation, only the person’s reaction to it. It’s the perfect way to distract himself from his preoccupation with Derek—clenching his hands into fists as Isaac brushes off spiders Stiles can’t see and as Danny presses his hands against walls that are invisible to Stiles, and smirking when Jackson turns bright red during whatever he experiences in “public humiliation.” Then it’s his turn.

The obstacle won’t be comfortable for him, but because he has been able to manipulate every simulation, not just this one, and because he has already gone through Derek’s landscape, he's not apprehensive as Paige inserts the needle into his neck.

Then the scenery changes and the kidnapping begins. The ground turns into grass beneath his feet, and hands clamp around his arms, over his mouth. It is too dark to see.

He stands next to the chasm. He hears the roar of the water. He yells into the hand that covers his mouth and thrashes to free himself, but the arms are too strong; his kidnappers are too strong. The image of himself falling into darkness flashes into his mind, the same image that he now carries with him in his nightmares. He yells again; he screams until his throat hurts. At least there aren’t claws digging into his back.

He knew they would come back for him, knew they would try again. The first time was not enough. He yells again—not for help, because no one will help him, but because that’s what one does when they’re about to die and no one can stop it.

“Stop,” a stern voice says.

The hands disappear, and the lights come on. He stands on cement in the fear landscape room. His body shakes, and he drops to his knees, pressing his hands to his face. He just failed. He lost all logic, he lost all sense. Paige’s fear transformed into one of his own.

And everyone saw him. Derek saw him.

He hears footsteps. Derek marches toward him and wrenches him to his feet. “What the hell was that, Squatter?”’

“I. . .” His breath comes in a hiccup. “I didn’t—”

“Get yourself together! This is pathetic.”

“Hey! Calm down! Do you know what he went through not even a week ago? Cut him some slack!” He hears someone say, and looks over to see Danny, an angry expression on his normally calm face.

“Well look at that! The human needs protecting again! From his little boyfriend no doubt!” Derek says.

Something within Stiles snaps. He’s tired of this, of Derek only caring about him when he wants to humiliate him, of Danny acting like his white knight, of everything. Heat races through his body, driving the weakness out of him, and yells "Hey!" at the top of his lungs to get Derek's attention before he punches Derek so hard his knuckles burn with the impact. He's so surprised by his own action that he can barely think abut how Derek actually _let_ Stiles hit him. Derek just stares at him, one side of his face bright with blush-blood, and Stiles stares back.

“Shut up,Hale,” Stiles says. He yanks his arm from Derek's grasp and walks out of the room, leaving everyone gaping after him.

-

He doesn’t know where he’s going, he just walks. Soon, the dark rocks of the walls forming the Valiant compound disappear, and Stiles is standing outside, above ground. He’s not technically supposed to be out there by himself, or at least, not without a Valiant member, but he doesn’t care.

He’s fuming.

He takes calming breaths, trying to steady himself and his rage. He doesn’t understand why Derek had to humiliate him like that, throwing how Danny cares for him too much back into Stiles’s face. Even after Stiles had told Derek nothing was going on between him and Danny, Derek couldn’t control his jealousy, and yelled at Stiles in front of everyone that he thought Stiles was pathetic.

“Stiles!” He hears behind him, and Stiles looks over his shoulder to see Danny running up to him.

Stiles turns back around, frustrated, and walks towards a huge rock and sits down. It reminds him of when Derek first kissed him, underneath the chasm. He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think about Derek’s lips on his right now.

But something about Derek reminds Stiles of hitting him. How Derek had let him. He’s a werewolf, so technically, he shouldn’t have had the hit mark on his face, but he let it show. Let Stiles see it.

Stiles takes another deep breath. _Derek let him hit him._  

“Stiles.” He hears again, and looks up to see Danny sitting beside him. 

He sighs, “Hey, Danny.”

“You okay?” A comforting hand comes to Stiles’s back, and Stiles has to remind himself not to flinch.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Should probably be asking you how you are.” Stiles chuckles.

“Eh, I’m good. Hale doesn’t scare me.” Danny replies, shrugging. He’s got his signature smile on his face, one that Stiles has always thought suited him.

“That’s not really what I meant, though.”

“Then what did you mean?” 

Stiles swallows. “H-Hale called you my boyfriend. I know how embarrassing that must have been, being associated with me, a weak, tiny human.” He shrugs.

Danny scratches the back of his head, “Actually, I don’t think that at all. I didn’t think it was embarrassing.” 

Stiles looks up at him, “What?”

“I’ve liked you for a while now, Stiles. For someone who notices everything, you’re pretty oblivious.” Danny says, chuckling.

Stiles gapes at him. Danny likes him? How could he have missed that? He suspected something about Danny, but he hadn’t ever considered Danny would like him like that.

How did he go from being a weak little human to having too of the hottest guys Stiles has seen admitting that they like him?

“Danny, I - “ Stiles is at a loss for words.

“It’s okay, Stiles. I know you don’t feel the same way.” He sounds a little hurt when he says it. “Besides, I see the way you look at Hale, and the way he looks at you.” 

Stiles’s cheeks go hot then, and he leans over and hits Danny on the shoulder, laughing, “Danny!’

They both laugh for a moment, and then everything is quiet, “I’m really sorry, Danny. That I can’t be that person you like.”

Danny just shrugs again, “Like I said, I’m over it.” Stiles pulls up the hem of his shirt to wipe some of the sweat from his brow, and Danny’s eyes immediately go to the pale strip of skin Stiles’s shirt left behind. He gulps. “Well, mostly over it.”

Stiles just nods, letting his shirt fall, “I really am sorry, Danny.”

“It’s not your fault. Besides, another one has caught my eye.” Danny wiggles his eyebrows.

“Ooh, who?” Stiles teases, laughing.

“Promise not to be mad?” Danny chuckles. When Stiles nods, Danny continues, “Ethan.”

Stiles gapes at him, “That’s the enemy, Danny!” 

Danny scoffs at him, “Not really, Stiles. He’s actually really nice. Remember when I hit you with that pellet gun?” 

“How could I forget that?” Stiles laughs, nudging Danny’s side.

Danny swats him away, “Ethan was walking towards the chasm when I was returning back to the Valiant-born rooms, and we talked. He was really sweet.”

Stiles thinks for a moment, “You know, I think that was the same day where Ethan held my hands back behind my back when I almost got thrown into the chasm.”

Danny cringes, “Stiles. . .”

Sties chuckles. He still hasn’t completely forgiven Ethan, but Ethan has done what he’s asked. If Danny likes him, Stiles isn’t going to stop him, “I’m kidding, Danny.”

Danny lets out a sigh, “We better get back. You know we’re not allowed to leave the compound.”

“Are you rebelling for me Danny?” Stiles says in mock shock.

“Yeah well,” Danny’s cheeks heat up, “like I said. Still not completely over you.”

Stiles swallows again, moving alongside Danny as they walk. They walk in silence on the way back to the compound, but it’s a comfortable silence. Stiles thinks about everything that has happened since he’s been in Valiant, how he’s quickly beginning to pass becoming a member. It brings a smile to his face, and although there has been some bad things, Stiles isn’t going to let that stop him.

 

When Stiles and Danny enter the compound, Danny immediately turns and says goodbye, saying he needs to get to Erica. Stiles just nods, walking deeper into the compound. When he enters the Hole, Deucalion is waiting for him by the door. He takes Stiles's arm and leads him to a secluded corner. Deucalion’s fingers squeeze so hard Stiles knows he’ll have bruises.

He stands between Stiles and the door that leads towards the initiate room. He starts to crack his knuckles. Other than that, he is completely still.

Stiles shudders involuntarily.

The faint pop of his knuckle-cracking is all Stiles hears apart from his own breaths, which grow faster by the second. When Deucalion is finished, he laces his fingers together on top of his cane.

“Welcome back, Stiles.”

“Deucalion.”

He walks toward Stiles, carefully placing one foot in front of the other.

“What. . .” His first word is quiet. “Exactly,” he adds, louder this time, “were you thinking?”

“I. . .” Deucalion is so close Stiles can see the glow of his red eyes. “I don’t know.”

“I'm tempted to call you a traitor, Stiles,” he says. “Have you never heard the phrase  _’sector before servitude’_?”

Stiles has seen Deucalion do terrible things. He has heard him say terrible things. But he has never seen Deucalion like this. He is not a maniac anymore; he is perfectly controlled, perfectly poised. Careful and quiet.

For the first time, he recognizes Deucalion for what he is: a Tutelage disguised as a Valiant, a genius as well as a sadist, a hunter of the Aberrant.

Stiles wants to run.

“Were you unsatisfied with the life you have found here? Do you perhaps regret your choice?” Both of Deucalion’s eyebrows lift, forcing creases into his forehead. “I would like to hear an explanation for why you betrayed Valiant, yourself, and me. . ” He taps his chest. “. . .by venturing out of the compound when I specifically warned you not to.”

“I. . .” He takes a deep breath. Deucalion would kill him if he knew what Stiles was, he can feel it. His hands curl into fists. Stiles is alone there; if something happens to him, no one will know and no one will see it.

“If you cannot explain,” he says softly, “I may be forced to reconsider your rank. Or, because you seem to be so attached to breaking the rules. . .perhaps I will be forced to reconsider your friends’ ranks. Perhaps the little Idem human inside of you would take that more seriously.”

Stiles's first thought is that he couldn’t do that, it wouldn’t be fair. His second thought is that of course he would, he wouldn’t hesitate to do it for a second. And he is right —the thought that Stiles's reckless behavior could force someone else out of a sector makes his chest ache from fear.

He tries again. “I. . .”

But it's hard to breathe.

And then the door opens. Derek walks in. “What are you doing?” he asks Deucalion.

“Leave the room,” Deucalion says, his voice louder and not as monotone. He sounds more like the Deucalion Stiles is familiar with. His expression, too, changes, becomes more mobile and animated. Stiles stares, amazed that he can turn it on and off so easily, and wonders what the strategy behind it is.

“No,” Derek says. “He’s just a foolish human. There’s no need to drag him here and interrogate him.”

“Just a foolish human,” Deucalion laughs manically. “If he were just a foolish human, he wouldn’t be ranked high, now would he?”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose and looks at Stiles through the spaces between his fingers. He's trying to tell him something. Stiles thinks quickly. What advice has Derek given him recently?

The only thing he can think of is: pretend some vulnerability.

It’s worked for him before.

“I. . .I was just embarrassed and didn’t know what to do.” Stiles put his hands in his pockets and looks at the ground. Then he pinches his leg so hard that tears well up in his eyes, and he looks up at Deucalion, sniffing. Deucalion’s got his Alpha eyes on, so Stiles knows he can see Stiles clearly. “I tried to. . .and. . .” he shakes his head.

“You tried to what?” asks Deucalion.

“Kiss me,” says Derek. “And I rejected him, and he went running off like a five-year-old. There’s really nothing to blame him for but _stupidity._ ”

They both wait.

Deucalion looks from him to Derek and laughs, too loudly and for too long—the sound is menacing and grates against Stiles like sandpaper. “Isn’t he a little too old for you, Stiles?” he says, smiling again.

Stiles wipes his cheek like he's wiping a tear. The is where Idem has taught him his submission. “Can I go now?”

“Fine,” Deucalion says, leaning forwards with his cane, “but you are not allowed to leave the compound without supervision again, you hear me?” He turns toward Derek. “And you. . .had better make sure none of the transfers leave this compound again. And that none of the others try to kiss you.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

Stiles leaves the room and walks outside again, shaking his hands to get rid of the jitters. He sits down on the pavement and wraps his arms around his knees.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, his head down and his eyes closed, before the door opens again. It might have been twenty minutes and it might have been an hour. Derek walks toward him.

He stands and crosses his arms, waiting for the scolding to start. Stiles punched him and then got himself into trouble with the Valiant—there has to be scolding.

“What?” he asks.

“Are you all right?” A crease appears between his eyebrows, and Derek touches his cheek gently. Stiles bats his hand away.

“Well,” Stiles says, “first I got reamed out in front of everyone, and then I had to chat with Danny about he’s supposedly in love with me, and then Deucalion almost tossed my friends out of Valiant, so yeah, it’s shaping up to be a pretty great day, Hale.”

He shakes his head and looks at the dilapidated building to his right, which is made of brick and barely resembles the sleek glass spire behind Stiles. It must be ancient. No one builds with brick anymore.

“Why do you care, anyway?” Stiles asks. “You can be either a cruel instructor or a concerned boyfriend.” Stiles tenses up at the word “boyfriend.” He didn’t mean to use it so flippantly, but it’s too late now. “You can’t play both parts at the same time.”

“I am _not_  cruel.” Derek scowls at him, but Stiles is used to it now. Derek’s glares don’t affect him anymore. “I was protecting you this morning. How do you think Kali and her idiot friends would have reacted if they discovered that you and I were. . .” He sighs. “You would never win. They would always call your ranking a result of my favoritism rather than your skill.”

Stiles opens his mouth to object, but he can’t. A few smart remarks come to mind, but he dismisses them. Now isn’t the time for his sarcasm. Derek’s right. Stiles’s cheeks warm, and he cools them with his hands.

“You didn’t have to insult me to prove something to them,” he says finally.

“And you didn’t have to run off outside of the compound with Danny just because I hurt you,” Derek says. He rubs at the back of his neck. “Besides—it worked, didn’t it?”

“At my expense.”

“I didn’t think it would affect you this way.” Then he looks down and shrugs. “Sometimes I forget that I can hurt you. That you are capable of being hurt.”

Stiles slides his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. A strange feeling goes through him—a sweet, aching weakness. He did what he did because he believed in Stiles’s strength.

No one has ever been so convinced of his strength.

Stiles stands on his tiptoes, lifts his head, and kisses Derek. Only their lips touch.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?” Stiles shakes his head. “You always know exactly what to do.”

“Only because I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” he says, kissing Stiles briefly. “How I would handle it, if you and I. . .” He pulls back and smiles. “And am I 'Hale' now? I like it when you call me by my name. I miss hearing it." And then Derek gets an even bigger smile on his face, "Did I hear you call me your boyfriend, Stiles?”

“Not exactly.” Stiles shrugs. “Why? Do you want me to?”

He slips his hands over Stiles's neck and presses his thumbs under his chin, tilting Stiles’s head back so his forehead meets his. For a moment he stands there, his eyes closed, breathing Stiles's air. Stiles feels the pulse in his fingertips. He feels the quickness of his breath. He seems nervous.

“Yes,” he finally says. 

“Only after you pulled a jealousy stunt.” Stiles chuckles.

Derek sighs, “I can’t help it. Danny gets under my skin. And you left the compound with him, and he told you he liked you.”

Sties shrugs, “I let him know that nothing was going to happen. Got someone else on my mind.”

Derek smiles, “Good, because you’re _mine_.” The words send shivers down Stiles’s spine. “And I don’t do well with sharing.” Stiles laughs, and kisses him again.

“Must be a wolf thing.” Stiles replies, and Derek smiles at him again.

Then his smile fades. “You think we convinced him you’re just a silly human?”

“I hope so,” Stiles says. “Sometimes it helps to be human. I’m not sure I convinced Gerard, though. When I talked to him on Visiting Day.”

The corners of his mouth tug down, and he gives Stiles a grave look. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“Not now.” He glances around. “Meet me back here at eleven thirty. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

Stiles nods, and he turns away, leaving just as quickly as he came.

 

“Where have you been all day?” Scott asks when he walk back into the room. The room is empty; everyone else must be at dinner. “I looked for you outside, but I couldn’t find you. Is everything okay? Did you get in trouble for hitting Hale?”

Stiles shakes his head. The thought of telling him the truth about where he was makes him feel exhausted. How can he explain the impulse to run out of the compound? Or the eerie calm in Deucalion’s voice as he questioned him? Or the reason that he exploded and hit Derek to begin with?

“I just had to get away. I walked around for a long time,” Stiles says. “And no, I’m not in trouble. He yelled at me, I apologized. . .that’s it.”

As he speaks, he's careful to keep his eyes steady on Scott's and his hands still at his sides. 

“Good,” Scott says. “Because I have something to tell you.”

He looks over Stiles's head at the door and then stands to see if anyone is on the beds—checking if they’re empty, probably. Then he sets his hands on Stiles's shoulders.

“What I’m about to tell you is completely secret. Okay?”

“Dude, what are you talking about?” Stiles frowns.

“You know what I mean. I just need to tell my best friend before anyone else.”

Stiles nods, his heart swelling at Scott’s words. “’Kay.”

Scott grins so wide Stiles can see his back row of teeth. “I kissed Allison.” 

“What?” Stiles demands. “When? How? What happened?”

“I know right!” Scott straightens, taking his hands from Stiles's shoulders. “Well, right after you flipped at Hale, and Danny ran off, we ate lunch and then we walked around near the train tracks. I was really worried about you, and she calmed me down. We were just talking about. . .I don’t even remember what we were talking about. And then I just stopped, and leaned in, and. . .kissed her.”

“Did you know that she liked you?” Stiles says. “I mean, you know. Like that.”

“No!” he laughs. “The best part was, that was it. We just kept walking and talking like nothing happened. Well, until she kissed me.”

“How long have you known you liked her?”

“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t. But then little things. . .how she puts her arm around me, how her smile makes me smile, how I open doors for her like she's a girl instead of someone who could beat the crap out of me.”

Stiles laughs. Suddenly he want to tell him about Derek and everything that has happened between them. But the same reasons Derek gave for pretending they aren’t together holds him back. He knows that Scott wouldn’t think twice about it, but then he remembers Deucalion throwing his rank around, and he doesn’t want Scott to suffer just because of his relationship with Derek.

So he just says, “I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks,” Scott says. “I’m happy too. And I thought it would be a while before I could feel that way. . .you know. And I just needed to tell you.”

He sits down on the edge of Stiles's bed and looks around the room. Some of the initiates have already packed their things. Soon, they’ll move into apartments on the other side of the compound. Those with government jobs will move to the glass building above the Pit. Stiles won’t have to worry about Kali or Aiden attacking him in his sleep.

“I can’t believe it’s almost over,”she says. “It’s like we just got here. But it’s also like. . .like I haven’t seen home in forever.”

“You miss it?” Scott leans back

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I miss my mom and dad."

Scott nods. 

“I don’t think I could have made it through any other initiation, though.” Scott shakes his head. “In Probity, instead of simulations, you get lie detector tests. All day, every day. And the final test. . .” He wrinkles his nose. “They give you this stuff they call truth serum and sit you in front of everyone and ask you a load of really personal questions. The theory is that if you spill all your secrets, you’ll have no desire to lie about anything, ever again. Like the worst about you is already in the open, so why not just be honest?”

Stiles doesn’t know when he accumulated so many secrets. Being Aberrant. Fears. How he feels about his friends, his family, Ethan and Danny, Derek. Probity initiation would reach things that even the simulations can’t touch; it would wreck him.

“Sounds awful,” Stiles says.

“I always knew I couldn’t be Probity, like my mom. I mean, I try to be honest, but some things you just don’t want people to know. Plus, I like to be in control of my own mind.”

_ Don’t we all. _

“Anyway,” Scott says. He opens the cabinet to the left of Stiles's beds. When he pulls the door open, a moth flutters out, its white wings carrying it toward his face. Scott shrieks so loud Stiles almost jumps out of his skin and slaps at his cheeks.

“Get it off! Get it off get it off get it off!” Scott screams.

The moth flutters away.

“It’s gone!” Stiles says. Then he laughs. “You’re afraid of. . .moths?”

“They’re disgusting. Those papery wings and their stupid bug bodies...” He shudders.

Stiles keeps laughing. He laughs so hard he has to sit down and hold his stomach. “It’s not funny!” Scott moans. “Well. . .okay, maybe it is. A little.”

“I never knew that about you, Scotty.” Stiles laughs, and just pats him on the shoulder.

 

When Stiles finds Derek late that night, he doesn’t say anything; he just grabs Stiles's hand and pulls him toward the train tracks.

He draws himself into a train car as it passes with bewildering ease and pulls Stiles in after him. Stiles falls against him, his cheek against Derek's chest. His fingers slide down Stiles's arms, and he holds him by the elbows as the car bumps along the steel rails. Stiles's watches the glass building above the Valiant compound shrink behind them.

“What is it you need to tell me?” He shouts over the cry of the wind. 

“Not yet,” Derek says.

He sinks to the floor and pulls Stiles down with him, so he’s sitting with his back against the wall and Stiles is facing him, Stiles's legs trailing to the side on the dusty floor. The wind pushes strands of his hair back. Derek presses his palms to Stiles's face, his index fingers sliding behind Stiles's ears, and pulls his mouth to his.

Stiles hears the screech of the rails as the train slows, which means they must be nearing the middle of the city. The air is cold, but Derek’s lips are warm and so are his hands. He tilts his head and kisses the skin just beneath Stiles’s jaw. Stiles is glad the air is so loud he can’t hear him sigh.

The train car wobbles, throwing off his balance, and he puts his hand down to steady himself. A split second later he realizes that his hand is on Derek's hip. The bone presses into his palm. He should move it, but he doesn’t want to. He told Stiles once to be brave, and though Stiles has stood still while knives spun toward his face, and he even got stabbed with one, and he jumped off a roof, he never thought he would need bravery in the small moments of his life. He does.

Stiles shifts, swinging a leg over Derek so he sits on top of him, and with his heartbeat in his throat, he presses his lips to Derek's. Derek sits up straighter and Stiles feel his hands on his shoulders. His fingers slip down Stiles's spine and a shiver follows them down to the small of his back. Derek unzips his jacket a few inches, and he presses Stiles's hands to his legs to stop them from shaking. He shouldn’t be nervous. This is Derek.

Cold air slips across Stiles's bare skin. Derek pulls away and looks carefully at the tattoo on Stiles’s stab wound. It’s mostly healed now, turning into a while line that raises on his pale skin. Derek's fingers brush over the swirls, and he smiles.

“The triskele,” he says. “Why did you get it? I keep forgetting to ask.”

Stiles returns his smile. “To remind me to be brave, and the one on my wrist reminds me to be myself,” he says. “You like them?”

Derek doesn’t answer. He tugs Stiles closer, pressing his lips to each swirl in turn. Stiles closes his eyes. Derek's touch is light, sensitive. A heavy, warm feeling, like spilling honey, fills his body, slowing his thoughts. Derek touches Stiles's cheek.

“I hate to say this,” he says, “but we have to get up now.”

Stiles nods and opens his eyes. They both stand, and he tugs Stiles with him to the open door of the train car. The wind is not as strong now that the train has slowed. It’s past midnight, so all the street lights are dark, and the buildings look like mammoths as they rise from the darkness and then sink into it again. Derek lifts a hand and points at a cluster of buildings, so far away they are the size of a fingernail. They are the only bright spot in the dark sea around them. The Tutelage compound.

“Apparently the city ordinances don’t mean anything to them,” Derek says, “because their lights will be on all night.”

“No one else has noticed?” Stiles asks, frowning.

“I’m sure they have, but they haven’t done anything to stop it. It may be because they don’t want to cause a problem over something so small.” Derek shrugs, but the tension in his features worries Stiles. “But it made me wonder what the Tutelage are doing that requires night light.” 

He turns toward Stiles, leaning against the wall.

“Two things you should know about me. The first is that I am deeply suspicious of people in general,” he says. “It's my nature to expect the worst of them. And the second is that I am unexpectedly good with computers.”

Stiles nods. Derek said his other job was working with the military, maybe as intelligence, but Stiles has trouble picturing him sitting in front of a screen all day. For someone who thrives on combat, Stiles hadn't really expected him to work with computers. Maybe he just has a knack for them.

“A couple months ago, before training started, I was at work and I found a way into the Valiant secure files. Apparently, we're not as skilled as the Tutelage are at security,” he says, “and what I discovered was what looked like war plans. Thinly veiled commands, supply lists, maps. Things like that. And those files were sent by Tutelage.”

“War?” Stiles runs a hand through his hair. Listening to his father talk about how Aberrance is dangerous and the Tutelage were hunting them, and his experiences in the Valiant compound makes him wary of authority and human beings in general, so he's not shocked to hear that a sector could be planning a war.

Stiles looks up at Derek.

“War on Idem?”

He takes Stiles's hands, lacing his fingers with his, and says, “The sector that controls the government, Probity, and Idem, yes.”

Stiles's stomach sinks.

“Reports are supposed to stir up dissension against Probity,” Derek says, his eyes focused on the city beyond the train car. “Evidently the Tutelage now want to speed up the process. They’re hunting Aberrants, trying to kill them. I think they’re trying to show who has the real power, not Probity. I have no idea what to do about it. . .or what could even be done. ”

“But,” Stiles says, “why would Tutelage team up with Valiant?”

And then something occurs to him, something that hits him in the gut and gnaws at his insides. Tutelage doesn’t have weapons, and they don’t know how to fight—but the Valiant do.

Stiles stares wide-eyed at Derek.

“They’re going to use us,” he says, realization dawning on him.

“I wonder,” Derek says, “how they plan to get us to fight.”

His father told him about how Tutelage knows how to manipulate people. They could coerce some of the Valiant into fighting with misinformation, or by appealing to greed—any number of ways. But the Tutelage are as meticulous as they are manipulative, so they wouldn’t leave it up to chance. They would need to make sure that all their weaknesses are shored up. But how?

The wind blows Stiles's hair across back again, and down on his forehead, cutting his vision into strips, and he leaves it there.

“I don’t know.” Stiles replies, looking back at Tutelage headquarters, and the lights seem to be glowing brighter with every second.

-

Initiation day plunges the Valiant compound into insanity and chaos. There are people everywhere, and most of them are inebriated by noon. Stiles fights his way through them to get a plate of food at lunch and carries it back to the initiates’ room with him. On the way, he sees someone fall off the path on the Pit wall and, judging by his screams and the way he grabs at his leg, he broke something.

The room, at least, is quiet. He stares at his plate of food. He just grabbed what looked good to him at the time, and now that he takes a closer look, he realizes that he chose a plain chicken breast, a scoop of peas, and a piece of brown bread. Something someone with pull in Idem would eat.

Stiles sighs. Idem is what he is. It's what he is when he’s not thinking about what he's doing. It's what he is when he's put to the test. It's what he is even when he appears to be brave. He’s human.

The thought of his former sector sends a tremor through his hands. He has to warn his family about the war the Tutelage are planning, but he doesn’t know how. He will find a way, but not today. Today, he has to focus on what awaits him. One thing at a time. He has to focus on initiation, on the promises he made to his dad and Derek.

He eats like a robot, rotating from chicken to peas to bread and back again. It doesn’t matter what sector he truly belongs in. In two hours, he will walk to the fear landscape room with the other initiates, go through his fear landscape, and become Valiant. It’s too late to turn back.

When he finishes, he buries his face in his pillow. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but after a while, he does, and he wakes up to Scott shaking his shoulder.

“Time to go,” he says. He looks ashen.

Stiles rubs his eyes to press the sleep from them. He has his boots on already. The other initiates are in the room, tying shoelaces and buttoning jackets and throwing smiles around like they don’t mean it. Stiles runs a hand through his hair to make it look presentable and puts on his black jacket, zipping it up to his throat. The torture will be over soon, but can they forget the simulations? Will they ever sleep soundly again, with the memories of their fears in their heads? Or will they finally forget their fears today, like they’re supposed to?

They walk to the Hole and up the path that leads to the glass building. Stiles looks up at the glass ceiling, but he can’t see daylight because the soles of boots cover every inch of glass above him. For a second, he thinks he hears the glass creak, but it’s only his imagination. He walks up the stairs with Scott, and the crowd chokes him. 

The heat of so many bodies around him makes it difficult to breathe. Beads of sweat gather on his forehead. A break in the crowd reveals what everyone is all clustered around: a series of screens on the wall to Stiles's left.

Stiles hears a cheer and stop to look at the screens. The screen on the left shows a black- clothed girl in the fear landscape room—her blonde hair gives her away—Erica. Stiles watches her move, her eyes wide, but he can’t tell what obstacle she’s facing. Thank God no one out here will see his fears either—just his reactions to them.

The middle screen shows her heart rate. It picks up for a second and then decreases. When it reaches a normal rate, the screen flashes green and the Valiant cheer. The screen on the Stiles’s right shows her time.

He tears his eyes from the screen and jogs to catch up to Scott, Isaac, Allison, Lydia, and Jackson. Derek stands just inside a door on the left side of the room that Stiles barely noticed the last time he was there. It’s next to the fear landscape room. Stiles walks past him without looking at him.

The room is large and contains another screen, similar to the one outside. A line of people sit in chairs in front of it. Ennis is one of them, and so is Deucalion. The others are also older looking. Judging by the wires connected to their heads, and their blank eyes, they are observing the simulation.

Behind them is another line of chairs, all occupied now. Stiles is the last to enter, so he doesn’t get one.

“Hey, Stiles!” Danny calls out from across the room. He sits with the other Valiant- born initiates. Only four of them are left; the rest have gone through their fear landscapes already. He pats his leg. “You can sit on my lap, if you want.”

“Tempting,” Stiles calls back, grinning. “It’s fine. I like to stand.”

He also doesn’t want Derek to see him sitting on someone else’s lap, especially Danny’s. Not after Stiles saw how jealous Derek gets.

The lights lift in the fear landscape room, revealing Erica in a crouch, her face streaked with tears. Deucalion, Ennis, and a few others shake off the simulation daze and walk out. A few seconds later, Stiles sees them on the screen, congratulating her for finishing. He takes a moment to wonder where Boyd is.

“Transfers, the order in which you go through the final test was taken from your rankings as they now stand,” Derek says. “So Ethan will go first, and Stiles will go last.”

That means fourteen people will go before he does.

He stands in the back of the room, a few feet away from Derek. He and Derek exchange glances when Ennis sticks Ethan with the needle and sends him into the fear landscape room. By the time it’s Stiles's turn, he will know how well the others did, and how well he’ll have to do to beat them.

The fear landscapes are not interesting to watch from the outside. Stiles can see that Ethan is moving, but he doesn’t know what he is reacting to. After a few minutes, he closes his eyes instead of watching and tries to think of nothing. Speculating about which fears he’ll have to face, and how many there will be, is useless at this point. He just has to remember that he has the power to manipulate the simulations, and can’t use it in fear of being discovered, and that he has practiced it before.

Aiden goes next. It takes him half as long as it takes his brother, but even Aiden has trouble. He spends too much time breathing heavily, trying to control his panic. At one point, he even screams at the top of his lungs.

It amazes Stiles how easy it is to tune out everything else—thoughts of war on Idem and Probity, Derek, his parents, his friends, his new sector fade away. All he can do now is get past this obstacle.

It takes a while for everyone else to go, Isaac’s rank is up, at number seven, Jackson at six, Lydia at five, Allison at four, and Scott at third. Allison next. Then Scott. Then Kali. Stiles doesn’t watch them. He knows only how much time it takes them: twelve minutes, ten minutes, eleven minutes. And then his name.

“Stiles.”

He opens his eyes and walks to the front of the observation room, where Ennis stands with a syringe full of orange liquid. He barely feels the needle as it plunges into his neck, barely see Ennis’s face as he presses the plunger down. Stiles imagines that the serum is liquid adrenaline rushing through his veins, making him strong.

“Ready?” He hears Ennis ask, and then everything fades away.

 

The ground beneath him changes. Grass rises from the concrete and sways in a wind he can’t feel. A green sky replaces the exposed pipes above his head. Stiles listens for the hawks and feels his fear as a distant thing, a hammering heart and a squeezed chest, but not something that exists in his mind. Derek told him to figure out what this simulation means. He was right; it isn’t about the birds. It’s about control.

Wings flap next to his ear, and the hawk’s talons dig into his shoulder.

This time, Stiles doesn’t hit the bird as hard as he can. He crouches, listening to the thunder of wings behind him, and runs his hand through the grass, just above the ground. What combats powerlessness? Power. And the first time he felt powerful in the Valiant compound was when he was holding a gun.

A lump forms in his throat and he wants the talons off. The bird squawks and his stomach clenches, but then he feels something hard and metal in the grass. His gun.

He points the gun at the hawk on his shoulder, and it detaches from his shirt in an explosion of blood and feathers. Stiles spins on his heel, aiming the gun at the sky, and sees the cloud of dark feathers descending. He squeezes the trigger, firing again and again into the sea of birds above him, watching their dark bodies drop to the grass.

As he aims and shoots, he feels the same rush of power he felt the first time he held a gun. Stiles's heart stops racing and the field, gun, and birds fade away. He stands in the dark again.

Stiles shifts his weight, and something squeaks beneath his foot. He crouches down and slides his hand along a cold, smooth panel—glass. He presses his hands to glass on either side of his body. The tank again. But he’s not afraid of drowning. This isn’t about the water; it’s about his inability to escape the tank. It’s about weakness. He just has to convince himself that he is strong enough to break the glass.

The blue lights come on, and water slips over the floor, but he doesn’t let the simulation get that far. He slams his palm against the wall in front of him, expecting the pane to break.

His hand bounces off, causing no damage.

Stiles's heartbeat speeds up. What if what worked in the first simulation doesn’t work here? What if he can’t break the glass unless he's under duress? The water laps over his ankles, flowing faster by the second. He has to calm down. Calm down and focus. He leans against the wall behind him and kicks as hard as he can. And again. His toes throb, but nothing happens.

_ Think Valiant. _

He has another option. He can wait for water to fill the tank—and it’s already at his knees—and try to calm down as he drowns. He braces himself against the wall, shaking his head. No. He can’t let himself drown. He can’t.

What would a Valiant do? Derek’s voice echoes in his brain.

_ Think. _

He looks down and sees where the water is piling into the tank. If he can block it, the force of the pressure will crack the glass. He takes off his jacket quickly, taking a deep breath and plunging into the water, finding the hole and pushing his jacket as hard as he can into it. At first, he doesn’t think anything is going to happen. He breaches the water and stands again, pressing his hand to the glass.

The glass shatters under his hand, and water spills onto the floor. And then the dark returns.

He shakes out his hands. That should have been an easy obstacle to overcome. He faced it before in the simulations. He can’t afford to lose time like that again.

What feels like a solid wall hits him from the side, forcing the air from his lungs, and he falls hard, gasping. He can’t swim; he’s only seen bodies of water this large, this powerful, when he was riding the train, He didn’t even know what the ocean was. 

Beneath him is a rock with a jagged edge, slick with water. The water pulls at his legs, and he clings to the rock, tasting salt on his lips. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a dark sky and a blood-red moon.

Another wave hits, slamming against his back. He hits his chin against the stone and wince. The ocean is cold, but his blood is hot, running down his neck. He stretches his arm and finds the edge of the rock. The water pulls at his legs with irresistible force. He clings as hard as he can, but he is not strong enough—the water pulls him and the wave throws his body back. It flings his legs over his head and his arms to each side, and he collides with the stone, his back pressed against it, water gushing over his face. Stiles’s lungs scream for air. He twists and grabs the edge of the rock, pulling himself above the water. He gasps, and another wave hits him, this one harder than the first, but he has a better hold.

Stiles must not really be afraid of the water. He must be afraid of being out of control. To face it, he has to regain control.

With a scream of frustration, he throws his hand forward and finds a hole in the rock. His arms shake violently as he drags himself forward, and he pulls his feet up under him before the wave can take him with it. Once he feet are free, Stiles gets up and throw his body into a run, into a sprint, his feet quick on the stone, the red moon in front of him, the ocean gone.

Then everything is gone, and his body is still. Too still.

He tries to move his arms, but they are bound tightly to his sides. He looks down and sees rope wrapped around his chest, his arms, his legs. A stack of logs rises around his feet, and he sees a pole behind him. He is high above the ground.

People creep out of the shadows, and their faces are familiar. They are the initiates, carrying torches, and Kali is at the front of the pack. Her eyes look like black pits, and she wears a smirk that spreads too wide across her face, forcing wrinkles into her cheeks. A laugh starts somewhere in the center of the crowd and rises as voice after voice joins it. Cackling is all Stiles hears.

As the cackling grows louder, Kali lowers her torch to the wood, and flames leap up near the ground. They flicker at the edges of each log and then creep over the bark. Stiles doesn’t struggle against the ropes, as he did the first time he faced this fear. Instead, he closes his eyes and gulps as much air as he can. This is a simulation. It can’t hurt him. The heat from the flames rises around him. He shakes his head.

“Smell that, human?” Kali says, her voice louder than even the cackling. 

“No,” Stiles says. The flames are getting higher.

She sniffs. “That’s the smell of your burning flesh.”

When Stiles opens his eyes, his vision is blurry.

_ C’mon, Stiles, think. _

He looks down as the flames, suddenly aware of how high they are again. He pushes his body forward, and sticks the rope covering his hands over the flames, and watches as his hands burn and the rope practically melts away. The cackling stops, and all the rope around his body disappears. 

He wishes he was like Derek and had only four fears to face, he is not that fearless.

He smooths his shirt down, and when he looks up, he stands in his corner in the Idem sector of the city. He has never faced this fear before. The lights are off, but the room is lit by the moonlight coming through the windows. One of the walls is covered with mirrors. He turns toward it, confused. That isn’t right. They don’t own mirrors.

He looks at the reflection in the mirror: his wide eyes, the bookcase, the bare walls. His eyes skip to the window behind him.

And to the man standing just outside.

Cold drops down his spine like a bead of sweat, and his body goes rigid. Stiles recognizes him. It’s his reflection from the aptitude test. He wears black and he stands still as a statue. Stiles blinks, and two men appear at his left and right, just as still as the man is, but their faces are featureless—skin-covered skulls.

Stiles whips his body around, and they stand in his corner. He presses his shoulders to the mirror.

For a moment, the room is silent, and then fists pound against his window, not just two or four or six, but dozens of fists with dozens of fingers, slamming into the glass. The noise vibrates in his rib cage, it is so loud, and then the man and his two companions begin to walk with slow, careful movements toward Stiles.

They are here to take him, like Kali, and Ethan, and Aiden; to kill him. He knows it.

Simulation. This is a simulation. His heart hammering in his chest, he presses his palm to the glass behind him and slide it to the left. It is not a mirror, but a broken edge of the mirror. He doesn’t shift his eyes from the man, but he slowly begins ripping off with his fingertips and wrap his hand around it.

He bites his lip and brings the shard up to the man. He doesn’t wait to see if the shard pierces him—he just aims at each featureless man in turn, as fast as he can, plunging into there skulls. His lip aches from biting it so hard. The pounding on the window stops, but a screeching sound replaces it, and the fists turn into hands with bent fingers, scratching at the glass, fighting to get in. The glass creaks under the pressure of their hands, and then cracks, and then shatters.

Stiles screams.

He only has a piece of broken glass to defend himself. What is he going to do?

Pale bodies—human bodies, but mangled, arms bent at odd angles, too-wide mouths with needle teeth, empty eye sockets—topple into the room, one after the other, and scramble to their feet, scramble towards Stiles. He pulls back into a closet and shuts the door in front of him. A solution. He needs a solution. He sinks into a crouch and press the side of the cool shard to his head. He can’t fight them off. He can’t fight them off, so he has to calm down. The fear landscape will register his slowing heartbeat and his even breath and it will move on to the next obstacle.

He sits down on the floor of the closet. The wall behind him creaks. He hears pounding—the fists are at it again, hitting the closet door—but he turns and peers through the dark at the panel behind him. It is not a wall but another door. He fumbles to push it aside and reveals an upstairs hallway that the doesn’t remember being in his one story house. Smiling, he crawls through the hole and stands. He is at home again in the grey hut.

Taking a deep breath, he watch his house fade. He forgot, for a second, that he was in the Valiant compound.

And then Derek is standing in front of him, his red Alpha eyes blaring bright.

But he’s not afraid of Derek. He looks over his shoulder. Maybe there’s something behind him that he's supposed to focus on. But no—behind him is just a four-poster bed.

A bed?

Derek walks toward him, slowly.

_ What’s going on? _

He stares up at Derek, paralyzed. Derek just smiles at him. That smile looks kind. Familiar.

He presses his mouth to Stiles's, and Stiles's lips part. He thought it would be impossible to forget he was in a simulation. He was wrong; Derek makes everything else disintegrate.

His fingers find Stiles's jacket zipper and pulls it down in one slow swipe until the zipper detaches. He tugs the jacket from his shoulders.

_Oh_ , is all Stiles can think, as Derek kisses him again. _Oh._

_My fear is being with him._  Stiles has been wary of affection all his life, Idem programming him to always be submissive and not look to closely at people he thought attractive, but he didn’t know how deep that wariness went.

But this obstacle doesn’t feel the same as the others. It is a different kind of fear —nervous panic rather than blind terror.

Derek slides his hands down Stiles's arms and then squeezes his hips, his fingers sliding over the skin just above Stiles's jeans, and Stiles shivers.

He gently pushes him back and presses his hands to his forehead. He has been attacked by hawks and men with grotesque faces; He has been set on fire by the girl who almost threw him off a ledge; he has almost drowned—twice—and this is what he can’t cope with? This is the fear he has no solutions for—a boy he likes, who wants to. . .have sex with him?

Simulation Derek kisses Stiles’s neck.

He tries to think. He has to face the fear. He has to take control of the situation and find a way to make it less frightening.

Stiles looks Simulation Derek in the eye and says sternly, “I am not going to sleep with you in a hallucination. Okay?”

Then he grabs him by his shoulders and turn them around, pushing Derek against the bedpost. He feels something other than fear—a prickle in his stomach, a bubble of laughter. He presses against Derek and kisses him, his hands wrapping around Derek's arms. He feels strong. He feels. . .good.

And he’s gone.

Stiles laughs into his hand until his face gets hot. He must be the only initiate with this fear. A trigger clicks in his ear.

He almost forgot about this one. He feels the heft of a gun in his hand and curls his fingers around it, slipping his index finger over the trigger. A spotlight shines from the ceiling, its source unknown, and standing in the center of its circle of light are his mother and father.

“Do it,” hisses a voice next to me. It is male, and harsh, like it’s cluttered with rocks and broken glass. It sounds like Gerard.

The barrel of a gun presses to Stiles's temple, a cold circle against his skin. The cold travels across his body, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He wipes his sweaty palm on his pants and looks at the man through the corner of his eye. It is Gerard. He is smirk is back, and his eyes are empty of feeling.

_ My worst fear: that my family will die, and that I will be responsible.  _

“Do it,” he says again, more insistent this time. “Do it or I’ll kill you.”

Stiles stares at his dad. He nods, his eyebrows tugged in, sympathetic. “Go ahead, Stiles,” he says softly. “I understand. It’s okay.”

Stiles's eyes burn. “No,” he says, his throat so tight it aches. He shakes his head.

“I’ll give you ten seconds!” Gerard shouts. “Ten! Nine!”

Stiles’s eyes skip from his father to his mother. The last time he saw her, she gave him a look love, but now her eyes are wide and soft. 

“Stiles,” she says. “You have no other option.”

“Eight! ”

“Stiles, honey.” His mother says. She smiles. She has a sweet smile. “We love you.”

“Seven!”

“Shut up!” Stiles shouts, holding up the gun. He can do it. He can shoot them. _They understand. They’re asking me to._ They wouldn’t want him to sacrifice himself for them. They aren’t even real. This is all a simulation.

“Six!”

It isn’t real. It doesn’t mean anything. His father’s kind eyes feel like two drills boring a hole in his head. His sweat makes the gun slippery.

“Five!”

He has no other option. He closes his eyes. Think. I have to think. The urgency making his heart race depends on one thing, and one thing only: the threat to his life.

“Four! Three!”

What did Derek tell him? Selflessness and submissiveness and bravery aren’t that different.

“Two!”

He releases the trigger of the gun and drops it. Before he can lose his nerve, Stiles turns and press his forehead to the barrel of the gun behind him.

_ Shoot me instead. _

“One!”

He hears a click, and an echoing bang.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mature!!

The lights come on. Stiles stands alone in the empty room with the concrete walls, shaking. He sinks to his knees, wrapping his arms around his chest. It wasn’t cold when he walked in, but it feels cold now. He rubs his arms to get rid of the goose bumps.

He has never felt relief like this before. Every muscle in his body relaxes at once and he breathes freely again. He can’t imagine going through his fear landscape in his spare time, like Derek does. It seemed like bravery to him before, but now it seems more like masochism.

The door opens, and Stiles stands. Deucalion, Ennis, Derek, and a few people Stiles doesn’t know walk into the room in a line, standing in a small crowd in front of him. Derek smiles at him.

“Congratulations, Stiles,” says Deucalion. His Alpha eyes are glowing behind his sunglasses, but he’s still holding his cane. “You have successfully completed your final evaluation.”

Stiles tries to smile. It doesn’t work. He can’t shake the memory of the gun against his head. He can still feel the barrel between his eyebrows.

“Thanks,” he says.

“There is one more thing before you can go and get ready for the Welcoming Ceremony,” Deucalion says. He beckons to one of the unfamiliar people behind him. A woman with blue hair hands him a small black case. He hands it to Ennis, who opens it and takes out a syringe and a long needle.

Stiles tenses up at the sight of it. The orange-brown liquid in the syringe reminds him of what they inject everyone with before simulations. And he is supposed to be finished with those.

“At least you aren’t afraid of needles,” Ennis says. “This will inject you with a tracking device that will be activated only if you are reported missing. Just a precaution.”

“How often do people go missing?” Stiles asks, frowning.

“Not often.” Ennis smirks. “This is a new development, courtesy of the Tutelage. We have been injecting every Valiant throughout the day, and I assume all other sectors will comply as soon as possible.”

Stiles's stomach twists. He can’t let Ennis inject him with anything, especially not anything developed by Tutelage—maybe even by Gerard. But he also can’t refuse. He can’t refuse or Deucalion will doubt his loyalty again.

“All right,” he says, his throat tight.

Ennis approaches him with the needle and syringe in hand, and Stiles tilts his head to the side. He looks away as Ennis wipes his neck with an antiseptic wipe and eases the needle into his skin. The deep ache spreads through his neck, painful but brief. He puts the needle back in its case when he’s done.

“The ceremony is in two hours,” Deucalion says. “Your ranking among the other initiates, Valiant-born included, will be announced then. Good luck.”

The small crowd files out of the room, but Derek lingers. He pauses by the door and beckons for Stiles to follow him, so he does. The glass room above the Hole is full of Valiant, some of them walking the ropes above Stiles's and Derek's heads, some talking and laughing in groups. Derek smiles at him. He must not have been watching.

“I heard a rumor that you only had seven obstacles to face,” he says. “Practically unheard of.”

“You. . .you weren’t watching the simulation?”

“Only on the screens. The Valiant leaders are the only ones who see the whole thing,” he says. “They seemed impressed.”

“Well, seven fears isn’t as impressive as four,” Stiles replies, “but it will suffice.”

“I would be surprised if you weren’t ranked in the top ten,” Derek says.

They walk into the glass room. The crowd is still there, but it is thinner now that the last person—Stiles—has gone.

People notice him after a few seconds. He stays close to Derek’s side as they point, but he can’t walk fast enough to avoid some cheers, some claps on the shoulder, some congratulations. As Stiles looks at the people around him, supernatural creatures who could kill anyone without thinking too hard, he realizes how strange they would look to anyone from Idem, and how normal they seem to him, despite all the metal rings in their faces and the tattoos on their arms and throats and chests. Stiles smiles back at them.

They descend the steps into the Hole and Stiles says, “I have a question.” He bites his lip. “How much did they tell you about my fear landscape?”

“Nothing, really. Why?” Derek asks.

“No reason.” Stiles kicks a pebble to the side of the path.

“Do you have to go back to the initiates’ room?” Derek asks. “Because if you want peace and quiet, you can stay with me until the ceremony.”

Stiles's stomach twists.

Derek must notice his hesitation. “What is it?” he asks.

Stiles doesn’t want to go back to the room, and he doesn’t want to be afraid of Derek. “Let’s go,” he says.

 

Derek closes the door behind them and slips off his shoes. “Want some water?” he asks.

“No, thanks.” Stiles says, holding his hands in front of his body.

“You okay?” he says, touching Stiles's cheek. Derek's hand cradles the side of his head, his long fingers slipping into Stiles's hair. He smiles and holds Stile's head in place as he kisses him. Heat spreads through Stiles slowly. And fear, buzzing like an alarm in his chest.

His lips still on Stiles's, Derek pushes the jacket from his shoulders. Stiles flinches when he hears it drop, and pushes Derek back, his hands shaking. He doesn’t know why he feels this way. He didn’t feel like this when Derek kissed him on the train. He presses his palms to his face, covering his eyes.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Stiles just shakes his head. He finds himself doing that a lot lately.

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing.” Derek's voice is cold. He grabs Stiles's arm. “Hey. Look at me.”

Stiles takes his hands from his face and lifts his eyes to Derek's. The hurt in his eyes and the anger in his clenched jaw surprise him.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Stiles says, as calmly as he can, “what’s in it for you. This. . .whatever it is.”

“What’s in it for me,” Derek repeats. He steps back, shaking his head. “Are you _serious_ right now?”

“I am _not_ an idiot,” Stiles says. “Which is why I know that it’s a little weird that, of all the people you could have chosen, you chose me. So if you’re just looking for. . .um, you know. . .that. . .”

“What? Sex?” Derek glares. “You know, if that was all I wanted, you probably wouldn’t be the first person I would go to.”

Stiles feels like Derek just punched him in the stomach. Of course he's not the first person Derek would go to—not the strongest, not the prettiest, not desirable. Stiles presses his hands to his abdomen and looks away, swallowing. He really didn’t expect Derek to throw that he’s just a weak human back into his face, but there it is. Stiles is not the crying type. Nor is he the yelling type. He blinks a few times, lowers his hands, and stares at Derek.

“I’m going to leave now,” he say quietly, turning toward the door.

“No, Stiles.” Derek grabs Stiles's wrist and wrenches him back. Stiles pushes him away, hard, but he grabs his other wrist, holding their crossed arms between them.

“I’m sorry I said that,” he says. “What I meant was that you aren’t like that. Which I knew when I met you.”

“You were an obstacle in my fear landscape.” Stiles's lower lip wobbles. “Did you know that?”

“What?” Derek releases his wrists, and the hurt look is back. “You’re _afraid_ of me?”

“Not you,” Stiles assures. He bites his lip to keep it still. “Being with you. . .with anyone. I’ve never been involved with someone before, and. . .you’re older, and I don’t know what your expectations are, and. . .”

“Stiles,” Derek says sternly, “I don’t know what delusion you’re operating under, but this is all new to me, too.”

“Delusion?” Stiles repeats. “You mean you haven’t. . .” Stiles raises his eyebrows. 

“Not since Kate.” Derek says.

“Oh. Oh. I just assumed. . .” That because Stiles is so absorbed by him, everyone else must be too. “Um. You know.”

“Well, you assumed wrong.” Derek looks away. His cheeks are bright, like he’s embarrassed. “You can tell me anything, you know,” he says. He takes Stiles's face in his hands, his fingertips cold and his palms warm. “I _am_ nicer than I seemed in training. I promise.”

Stiles believes him. But this has nothing to do with his kindness.

Derek kisses him between the eyebrows, and on the tip of his nose, and then carefully fits his mouth to Stiles's. Stiles is on edge. He has electricity coursing through his veins instead of blood. He wants Derek to kiss him, he wants him to; he’s just afraid of where it might go.

Derek's hands shift to Stiles's waist, and his fingers brush over the edge of his bandage. Derek pulls back with a furrowed brow.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

“No. It’s another tattoo. It’s healed, I just. . .wanted to keep it covered up.” 

“Can I see?”

Stiles nods, his throat tight. He pulls the bottom of his t-shirt up, and slips out of it. His cheeks are bright red. Stiles has never wanted someone to see him like this. Derek stares down at his bare chest for a second, and then runs his fingers over it. They rise and fall with Stiles's breath. When Derek touches him, he feels like everywhere his skin meets Stiles's is changed by the connection. It sends a thrill through his stomach. Not just fear. Something else, too. A wanting.

Derek looks at his face, sees the pointed look. Stiles knows that Derek's probably suspected that Stiles has self-conscious issues, so he's not surprised when Derek quietly assures him, “You’re beautiful, Stiles."

It makes Stiles blush bright, and Derek chuckles a little.

He peels the corner of the bandage away on Stiles's pelvis. His eyes roam over the symbol of Idem, and he smiles.

“I have the same one,” he says, laughing. “On the same place.”

“Really? Can I see it?”

He pulls the bandage the rest of the way off and pulls the black shirt out of Stiles’s hands. “Are you asking me to undress, Stiles?”

A nervous laugh gurgles from Stiles's throat. “Only. . .partially.”

He nods, his smile suddenly fading. He lifts his eyes to Stiles's and unzips his sweatshirt. It slides from his shoulders, and he tosses it onto a nearby chair. Stiles doesn’t feel like laughing now. All he can do is stare at Derek.

Derek's eyebrows pull to the center of his forehead, and he grabs the hem of his T-shirt. In one swift motion, he pulls it over his head.

His chest is unmarked, and Stiles desperately wants to run his hand over it. It looks so muscular, and Stiles wants to feel the muscles clench under his hands. 

Derek averts his eyes.

“What is it?” Stiles asks, frowning. He looks. . .uncomfortable.

“I don’t invite many people to look at me,” Derek says. “Any people, actually.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Stiles says softly. “I mean, look at you.”

He looks down at the place Derek told him his tattoo was, right on his pelvis, and a slither of the tattoo is covered by his pants. Stiles walks slowly around him. On his back is the Valiant symbol, the triskele, large in the center. Stiles reaches out and traces the swirls, mesmerized by the ways they curve to Derek’s spine. 

“I think we’ve made a mistake,” Derek says softly. “We’ve all started to put down the virtues of the other sectors in the process of bolstering our own. I don’t want to do that. I want to be brave, and deferential, and smart, and kind, and honest.” He clears his throat. “I continually struggle with kindness.” He looks out of the side of his eye at Stiles. "This reminds me to be all five, not just one.”

“No one’s perfect,” Stiles whispers, his hand still tracing Derek’s back. “It doesn’t work that way. One bad thing goes away, and another bad thing replaces it.”

Stiles traded cowardice for cruelty; he traded weakness for ferocity.

He brushes over the triskele symbol with his fingertips. “We have to warn them, you know. Soon.”

“I know,” Derek says. “We will.”

He turns toward Stiles. Stiles wants to touch him, but he's afraid of his bareness; afraid that Derek will make him bare too.

“Is this scaring you, Stiles?”

“No,” he croaks. He clears his throat. “Not really. I’m only. . .afraid of what I want.” 

“What do you want?” Then his face tightens. “Me?”

Slowly, Stiles nods.

Derek nods too, and takes Stiles's hands in his gently. He guides Stiles's palms to his stomach. His eyes lowered, he pushes his hands up, over his abdomen and over his chest, and holds them against his neck. Stiles’s palms tingle with the feel of his skin, smooth, warm. Stiles’s face is hot, but he shivers anyway. Derek looks at him.

“What do you want me to do?” He asks, and Stiles can see a gleam in his eyes.

“I. .  .I don’t know.” Stiles shakes his head, embarrassed. He doesn’t know a lot about sex.

“We. . .we can go slow,” Derek says, lifting Stiles’s head so their eyes meet. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do."

Stiles nods again, his heart in his throat. Against his lips, Derek says, “If I do anything you don’t like, or want, stop me.”

Stiles takes a deep breath against Derek’s lips, and Derek pushes himself forward and collides their lips together. Derek takes Stiles’s bottom lips between his teeth, biting slightly, which sends a shiver down his spine. Derek slips his tongue in, and it’s so different from what they’ve done before, more intimate, as he slips his arms around Sties’s waist, pushing his chest flush to Stiles’s.

They kiss for a while, Derek slowly moving his hands up Stiles’s sides, ghostly, like they aren’t really touching him. Stiles stands still, afraid of moving in case he messes up, until Derek starts walking him backwards, and they end up on his couch. Before Stiles can sit down it, Derek swaps them, pulling Stiles down into his lap. Stiles hooks his legs over Derek’s, straddling him.

Derek’s face goes into Stiles’s neck, his lips tracing the column of his neck before kissing up to his jaw. Stiles gasps at the feeling, his hands slipping into Derek’s dark hair. Their bare chests rubbing together sends electricity through his body, and Stiles feels pleasure surfing through his stomach.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” Derek whispers as he breaks the kiss, lips swollen and pupils dilated attractively.

“Y-yeah.” Stiles stutters out, panting.

Derek smiles at him and kisses him again, then slowly starts making his way down Stiles’s chest. His lips trace the skin he finds, and when he reaches Stiles’s left nipple, he gently takes it into his mouth sucks at it. Stiles moans loudly, his hands gently tugging on Derek’s hair.

Derek looks up at him through his eyelashes, and Stiles’s heart skips a beat.

Derek releases his nipple and moves on to the other one, giving it the same treatment. Stiles is a mess underneath him, his cock taking huge interest at having been stimulated a way he’s never been before. Derek makes him feel alive, and Stiles is reminded of why he feels so connected with Derek.

Derek’s hands are circled around his back, but he moves them to run up and down Stiles’s chest as he moves lower. Stile leans back slightly to accommodate him, almost falling in the process. Derek just grips him harder, placing kisses over his chest. 

Stiles guesses that Derek’s done with this part, judging by the way he suddenly moves back up to Stiles’s mouth. Stiles shifts slightly to get a better angle, and feels Derek’s dick rub against his own. It hadn’t really occurred to Stiles how Derek would be reacting, but the friction he feels as Derek’s semi-hard member brushes his makes him gasp in pleasure and his mind goes blank.

Derek pulls back, and Stiles thinks he can see red eyes, but they’re gone when he fully looks Derek in the eye. Derek is panting, taking in deep breathes, and looks absolutely serious when he says, “I think we should stop.”

The statement catches Stiles by surprise. Hadn’t Derek been enjoying it too? A million questions course through Stiles’s head all at once. Does Derek not like him like that? Is he not good enough? Has he changed his mind? Did he do something wrong?

“Uh. . .” Stiles is so shocked he doesn’t know what to say. He jumps off Derek’s lap, and Derek reaches out to him, “Wh-why? Did I - “

“No! Stiles, no. Believe me it wasn’t you,” Derek rushes, standing like Stiles. His muscled chest flexes as he stands, and Stile has to look away before he can get distracted, “I promise,” Derek starts, and looks down at the tent in Stiles’s black jeans, and then at his own before looking back at Stiles, “it really wasn’t anything you did that stopped me.”

“Then wh-what? Wh-why did you - “ Stiles stumbles on his words, choking them out over the lump in his throat.

“I just. . .” Derek begins, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, “If we don’t stop now, I don’t think I’ll be able to later on.”

“Then don’t.” Stiles replies, taking step forward.

“You don’t understand, Stiles.” Derek says, and this time Stiles doesn’t imagine in when his eyes turn red. Derek blinks for a long time, and then they’re back to normal again. “There’s. .  .something inside me, my wolf, that is telling me to claim you. If I don’t stop now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to control it.”

“Derek,” Stiles says, walking closer and taking hold of his hands, “I don’t care about that. I- um - really don’t want you to s-stop.”

Derek lets go of Stiles’s hands and brings one up to caress his cheek, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t, Der.” Stiles replies. And how did he get here? First being scared of moving on with Derek, and now being the one to want to move things along? He doesn’t know why, or how, he got there, but he doesn’t want it to stop.

Derek just nods, and leans forwards to kiss him again, “As long as you’re sure, Stiles.”

“I’m sure.” Stiles says, and clashes his lips to Derek’s again. They kiss like that for a while, fast and lustful, until Stiles feels his hard-on grow more and more. 

Derek must notice too. He breaks away from Stiles and take this hand, leading him down a long open hallway into a bigger room that Stile has been in before. In the corner next to the wall of windows, Derek’s bed lays empty, and it’s suddenly looking more and more enticing to Stiles. 

Derek lightly ushers Stiles towards the bed and crawls on top of him, leaning down and kissing him while supporting his own weight. Stiles’s arms wrap around him and pulls Derek’s body towards his, so Derek’s closer. Stiles can feel Derek’s dick pressing into his, and Derek grinds down on top of him.

Stiles moans again, gasping and throwing his head back at the sensation. Derek continuously does it, going fast and then changing to slow and long and then back again. Stiles feels pleasure that he’s never felt before and doesn’t ever want Derek to stop.

Derek pulls back slightly again, his forehead resting on Stiles’s, “Are you really sure you want to do this?"

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles groans, his face hot as he presses back up against Derek’s dick and grinds up against him to demonstrate just how ready he is.

“And remember that we don’t have to do this, that we can just – ” Derek is saying, but Stiles cuts him off, swooping in for another kiss, delving into Derek’s mouth with his tongue and enjoying the way Derek groans against his lips.

“Fuck,” Derek gasps as they break apart again, clutching at Stiles’s chest. “You are the bossiest virgin I’ve ever met.”

“Not for long,” Stiles replies, smirking and leaning up to kiss at Derek’s neck experimentally, getting more and more confident as Derek shivers and bucks his hips.

“I need these off, now,” Derek demands, pushing off of Stiles and unbuckling Stiles’s pants. Stiles helps him get them off, pants as Derek pulls away further to get out of his own pants. Stiles watches as tan thighs are revealed as Derek rids himself of his jeans, only revealing black boxer briefs that match Stiles’s own. Stiles wants to touch him everywhere, but doesn’t know what to do, and his own nudity is starting to reck his confidence as he slowly pulls in on himself.

Derek moves towards him, gently pulls his arms away so that he can leans back over Stiles again, “Please don’t hide from me,” he whispers against Stiles’s lips, “I want to see you.”

Stiles just nods as Derek presses a kiss to his lips and pulls back again, leaning over Stiles and runs a hand over his chest. Derek has a glint in his eyes and is looking at Stiles with a look he’s never seen before, “You’re absolutely _stunning_ , Stiles.”

Stiles blushes a deep pink, can feel it spreading down his neck and Derek’s eyes run over his body. He’s not used to this side of Derek, but thinks it won’t be hard to get used to.

Stiles pulls him back down then, crashing his lips to Derek’s again. He moves his hands down Derek’s abs and feels the rock hard muscle, basking in it’s feel, and stops at the waistband of Derek’s briefs, moving to tug on it, but Derek stops him.

“Hey, don’t get ahead of yourself,” he says, “I don’t want you to feel pressured to do something you don’t want. We’re going slow, okay? One step at a time."

Derek slowly pushes Stiles down onto the bed so he he’s laying flat, and Stiles takes a deep breath. He doesn’t know why he’s trying to push into things. He’s nervous and scared, but he has Derek to guide him.

“I’m going to do something, okay? If you don’t want me to or don’t like it, tell me.” Derek says, makes his way down in between Stiles’s legs.

Stiles means to reply, or maybe even nod his head, but then, well, then he’s swallowing any smart remarks he might still have in him, because Derek is on top of him, shoving his underwear down around his thighs. 

Stiles looks to the side, away from Derek, completely exposed. He never realized how much of a child he must looks to Derek when he’s exposed like this.

Derek looks at Stiles, nudges his side to get his attention, and says, “You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen,” and Stiles feels like he’s going to explode as his body burns red.

Derek smiles at him as he positions himself between Stiles’s legs, and Stiles wants to ask him what he’s doing, all practiced and eloquently laying, but the words are stuck in his throat.

“I need you to relax, okay?" Derek says, settling between Stiles’s thighs and looking up at him, licking his already saliva-slick lips. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” Stiles breathes, carding his fingers through his messy hair, “Yeah, okay. But what are you - ?”

Before Stiles can get an answer, Derek smiles slightly at him and then ducks his head down, licking a long stripe along the underside of Stiles’s cock. Stiles's grip on Derek’s hair tightens a little as Derek kisses the head of his cock and then takes the head of it into his mouth, sucking on it for a while before sliding down and taking in more. Stiles can’t help but buck his hips up off the bed, thrusting a little deeper into Derek’s mouth, but Derek takes it all in stride, hardly even faltering.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps, mesmerized by the look on Derek's face, the way he hollows his cheeks, the warm feeling around him, and the way his swollen lips are wrapped around his cock. Stiles was wrong. This was so much better than anything he’s ever felt before. 

Derek knows Stiles’s isn’t going to last long, not when it’s his first time and someone as skilled as Derek is doing this to him. Stiles tugs on Derek’s hair tentatively, drawing him in a little closer, until Derek’s nose is brushing up against dark hair. Derek looks up at him through long eyelashes, a heated spark in his eyes, before drawing back just a little bit and tugging at his hips, encouraging Stiles to thrust deeper into his mouth.

Stiles hesitates for a moment, wary of what to do, but then Derek’s eyes flutter shut and he moans, making Stiles gasp in pleasure as he feels the vibrations. Stiles complies, then – thrusting up into the wet heat of Derek's mouth three, four, five times before he’s gasping and shuddering, emptying himself into his warm mouth.

“What- what was that?” Stiles asks after he watches Derek swallow and move up to kiss him.

Derek just smiles, “Was that okay?,” 

“Yes,” Stiles pants, pulling Derek up and into another kiss.

It’s demanding this time, more so than before, at least. Derek pries his mouth open roughly with his tongue, delving inside. The slick slide of their lips together is almost bruising, and there’s the occasional clash of teeth due to Stiles’s lack of experience, but it’s one o the best kisses Stiles has ever had. Stiles can feel the rigid outline of Derek's cock pressing up against his hip, still confined by his briefs. 

With fumbling hands – trying not to break the kiss – Stiles reaches down to pull off Derek's briefs, but it takes him a few tries, and he finds himself swearing against Derek's lips, frustrated and overeager. Derek lets out a little laugh and pulls back, Stiles letting out a frustrated huff at the action.

“Stiles, it’s alright.” Derek pants, making quick work of his boxers, groaning as he finally frees his cock.

“I – ” Stiles begins, cutting his own self off.

“We can stop now. I know I won’t be able to control myself if we keep going. Not with the sounds you just made. _God_ , Stiles, do you have any _idea_ what you do to me?” Derek says, his eyes fluttering shut.

Stiles shakes his head, still panting, “Don’t stop.”

Derek looks him deep in the eyes, and nods after a moment. Stiles knows how wary Derek is right now, but he wants to make Derek feel good in ways he knows Derek wants to feel, wants Derek to do the same to him.

“Okay.” He says, and leans down to kiss Stiles again.

Derek pushes him up the bed slightly, so Stiles is resting on the pillows, Derek between his thighs.

Derek's hands bracket his face, holding him. It doesn't feel like a restraint, it feels reassuring, safe. Stiles sighs into it as he wraps his arms around Derek's shoulders, and he tries to just enjoy it for a while, to enjoy that he gets to have Derek like this, for the first time. 

Even Derek's patience starts to wear thin after a few minutes, however, and Stiles feels the subtle rock of his hips against him, the rub of their erections pressed together between their stomachs. Stiles moans into Derek's mouth, and one of Derek's hands skims down Stiles's side until it reaches his knee and pulls it up, guides it around Derek's hip. He thrusts against Stiles again and it sends a pleasant shock through Stiles's body. 

" _Stiles,_ " says Derek, lips dragging against Stiles' neck, over his collarbone and throat. "You smell so good." 

Shivering, Stiles clutches at Derek, dizzy with his arousal. "Yeah? What do I smell l-like?” he stutters only a little over the word, pulling confidence from the way Derek's hands tighten on him momentarily, the moan Derek lets escape right next to Stiles's ear.

“Like home.” Derek mumbles, and it sends another round of shivers down Stiles’s spine.

Derek seems to take a moment, taking deep, calming breaths, but eventually he moves away, working Stiles’s neck. He feels Derek suck on his neck, and doesn’t realize that he’s reaching for something next to a table by his bed. Derek leans back on his knees and shifts Stiles's legs until they're spread wide and draped over Derek's thighs. Stiles bites his lip and tries not to blush at the feeling of being exposed.

He wants to be exposed in front of Derek. He wants this, wants everything. He wants Derek, wants anything and everything from Derek. He just doesn’t know how well Derek wants him.

Judging by the way Derek is slicking up his fingers with stuff Stiles has never seen before and doesn't know what ith, Stiles guesses that it’s pretty much. He doesn’t remember getting hard again, but it’s standing at attention between his thighs.

Derek reaches out and slides two fingers over the length of Stiles' cock, from the tip to the base, and Stiles almost releases from that, from the sheer pleasure of it. 

Stiles feels dizzy from the bit of contact, and then Derek wraps his entire hand around Stiles’ cock, “Oh, _Derek!_ "

Stiles's back arches and his hips buck off the bed of their own volition, and Derek grins, his other hand curling around Stiles's side and easing him back down. He presses firmly, holding Stiles in place while he starts moving his his and up and down in steady strokes. 

“Is this okay?” Derek asks, and all Stiles can do is nod.

Stiles was a total stranger to this before. He never dared try anything like this back In Idem, not when everyone around his was so clustered enough that he couldn’t. He wasn't prepared for how this would be. Derek's hand is smooth, no calluses because of his werewolf healing like Stiles expected, and he feels a few degrees too warm. It's perfect, slick with the sticky stuff that Stiles doesn’t understnad and not quite gripping hard, which Stiles would have assumed would be a bad thing, but it’s. . .it's not. It feels amazing.

It's winding him up without pushing him over. Stiles feels his back arch again, head tipped back and throat stretched and vulnerable as he swallows compulsively, breathing hard. "Derek, Derek, oh my god, that - “

Derek smiles down at him, and Stiles can see his red Alpha eyes. He thinks it should frighten him, but it just makes him even more lost in Derek, “Why are your eyes re-red?”

Derek’s hand falters, “I-I’m sorry. It’s just that I - uh. . .I’m having a hard time having a hot and bothered, attractive man lifting his neck to me in submission. It's driving my wolf _insane._ ”

Stiles feels another shiver go through him, and he thinks he shouldn’t find that hot, but it so _is_ , “Sh-should I stop?”

“No.” Derek says, his intense red eyes staring deep into Stiles’s.

His grip loosens a little and his hand travels down, moving to cup Stiles’s balls. Stiles is torn by how good it is and how much he wants Derek's hand back on his member. 

"Oh Derek, okay, okay, that's. . .yeah," breathes out Stiles, but Derek's hand is going even lower, slick fingers pressing at the stretch of skin behind his balls and then finally gliding over his hole. 

“You look so pretty like this," says Derek. His fingertips rub circles against Stiles's hole, a steady rhythm that's letting him adjust, letting him coax himself into relaxing, like Derek told him to.

Stiles feels himself blushing deeply, blinking rapidly. "Like - like what?"

"Like this, talking to me, telling me how good I’m making you feel,” Derek replies. 

At Derek’s words, Stiles feels white hot pleasure slip down his spine as he arches again, and shoves himself up on his elbows. He means to look at Derek, but he gets distracted by looking down at himself. His dick is hard and flushed at the tip, leaking against his stomach, and his skin is slick with a sheen of sweat, legs spread wide around Derek, who is enfolded in his thighs. It's the filthiest thing Stiles has ever seen.

Derek groans, sounding warm and pleased and relaxed in a way that belies his own hard cock, jutting up between his legs and so close to Stiles. Stiles never thought he would see Derek like this, and the sight is almost enough to make him release.

Stiles feels his mouth open in a moan, and Derek says, “I don’t know if I can stop.” 

“Don’t ever stop,” Stiles replies, and Derek’s eyes shine bright red as he moans, and Stiles can see his elongated fangs peeking out from his lips.

And without further speculation, Derek smoothly presses one finger inside of Stiles. 

Stiles gasps, skin tingling as he clutches at the bedding and falls back. He didn't know _anything_ could go up there. He's never felt anything like this, doesn’t know how he could feel this blissed out. The angle allows for Derek to push in deep, easier to adjust as Derek starts a slow rhythm, sinking his finger into Stiles again and again. 

He drifts with it for a while, the stretch and strange fullness that stings but feels good, and soon enough Derek's pushing in a second finger. Derek starts purposefully teasing against something in Stiles's hole that has him seeing stars, and Stiles loses track of the sounds spilling from his own mouth, the words tumbling out that are everything from, "Oh god, oh god, oh god," to, “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” and unintelligible groaning.

There's no point in being embarrassed or ashamed anymore. Stiles knows he probably looks ridiculous, sounds even worse. He doesn't care. He doesn't give a shit because it feels so good, and it's Derek doing it to him. He doesn't know how he got so lucky, but he knows better than to question anything good he's lucky enough to get. He just knows to hold on and never let go. And he won’t let go. Won’t let anyone take this from him, not Gerard, not Deucalion, not Ennis, and not Idem.

When Derek's other hand wraps around his dick again, Stiles feels his vision go black a the edges. He is going to release and he's going to do it hard. Derek seems particularly interested in that outcome as he takes the opportunity to push a third finger inside of Stiles, angling right for that bundle of nerves.

Stiles gasps, his whole body tensing up, toes splaying as he releases over Derek's fist with a ragged moan. He streaks his stomach, all the way up to his nipples, and as soon as the last of his orgasm rolls through him, Derek bends low and licks him clean. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

"Oh my god," he says. He feels small suddenly, wide open and defenseless. He wants Derek on him, over him. He wants to feel safe. He reaches out, grabbing at Derek wherever he can reach, pulling at him. 

"Okay, it's okay," says Derek, pulling his fingers free, and lining himself up. Stiles barely has time to register the fact that Derek's about to be inside of him before he is, before he's inside Stiles with one hard stroke and coming down to catch Stiles' mouth in a messy, passionate kiss. 

Stiles feels himself give over to it, lets himself float on the dazed edge of his last orgasm and the overwhelming intimacy of having Derek in him. The pain is hazy, distant and removed, only serving to highlight the good, the sparks of pleasure every time Derek thrusts against his bundle like electric wires shocking him, the rub of Derek's sweat slicked stomach against Stiles' sensitive erection, the feel of Derek's stubble against his face, his mouth marking up Stiles' neck. It's all swirling together, leaving him edging on the far side of his last orgasm until he feels like he might tumble into another. 

It feels like it’s too much, and he can only wrap himself around Derek and let it happen, wants it to happen. Stiles wants everything he didn’t know he could have.

Derek is gasping in his ear, hot breath tickling his lobe. Stiles's scalp shines with sweat and he knows his hair must be plastered down. Nothing matters but Derek's hips thrusting, his cock working deep. Stiles arches his back once again, an unexpected rush that has him crying out, his blood pounding in his ears and fingernails digging into Derek's skin. 

Derek release not long after, blunt human teeth digging into Stiles' shoulder briefly before he kisses away the hurt with murmured adoration and apology. His eyes shine red, and Stiles can see his claws sprung out, carefully avoiding Stiles. Stiles understands what Derek meant by losing control, but he doesn't care. He's boneless and so utterly gone, high of the euphoria that is Derek. 

He feels like he’s going to collapse and when he does, Derek is there to catch him.

Stiles slumps forward against his chest, against the still wet come painting his stomach and hand. Derek kisses his forehead, and it’s the best moment of his entire life.

 

After, when they’re laying bed, tired and completely blissed out, Stiles turns his head up from his position on Derek’s chest, in Derek’s huge bed, and kisses the hollow beneath his throat. “Maybe you won’t be in my fear landscape anymore,” he murmurs.

Derek bends his head and kisses him slowly. “Good. I don’t ever want you to be afraid of me.”

“I’m sorry, Der. I promise, I won’t.” Stiles replies, grinning up at him.

They kiss again, and it feels familiar. Stiles knows exactly how they fit together, Derek's arm around his waist, Stiles's hands on his chest, the pressure of Derek's lips on his. He never should have been scared in the first place, not with Derek. They have each other memorized, and the thought brings a content smile to Stiles’s face.

-

Stiles watches Derek's face carefully as they walk to the dining hall, searching for any signs of disappointment, about the sex, or the fact that they didn’t do more. They spent the rest of the two hours lying on his bed after they had made love for the fist time, talking and kissing and eventually dozing until they heard shouts in the hallway—people on their way to the ceremony.

If anything, Derek seems lighter now than he was before. He smiles more, anyway.

When they reach the entrance, they separate. Stiles goes in first, and runs to the table he shares with Scott, Allison, Lydia, Isaac, and Jackson. Derek enters second, a minute later, and sits down next to Boyd, who hands him a dark bottle. He waves it away.

“Where did you go?” asks Scott from his place beside Allison, holding her hand. “Everyone else went back to the room. I was looking for you.”

Stiles really wants to tell him about Derek then, how he just lost his virginity in the best way possible, but he remembers the dangers with telling him, and Stiles deflates a little. He wishes he could be like Scott and Allison, wishes he didn’t have to hide his relationship. 

“I just wandered around,” Stiles says instead, biting his lip. “I was too nervous to talk to everyone else about it.”

“You have no reason to be nervous,” Scott says, shaking his head. “You’re totally going to make it, Stiles. We all are.” He says the last sentence with a dopey smile on his face, and Allison leans over and kisses him on the cheek.

Scott’s eyes widen a little, like he can’t believe that Allison would openly show her affection. Allison smiles at him, and they’re suddenly engrossed in each other, talking in hushed voices. 

Stiles just rolls his eyes, and turns to Lydia.

“What job are you going to pick?” ha asks her.

“I think I might want a job in Intelligence. You know, working with  computers, or something like that.” She shrugs, twirling her red hair between two fingers.

Stiles nods, chuckling. “That makes sense. Something to put your Tutelage brain too.”

Lydia smiles at him, laughing.

“I’m thinking I might want a job like involved with the sectors,” Isaac, on Lydia’s other side, speaks up. “ Like an ambassador. I think being a transfer would help me. What about you?”

Stiles was so focused on getting through initiation that he barely thought about what job he would pick. He could work for the Valiant leaders—but they would kill him if they discover what he is. But every job would be working under the Valiant leaders.

“I guess. . .I could do something like Hale’s job. Training initiates,” Stiles replies, contemplating. "Scaring the living daylights out of them. You know, fun stuff.”

“I was so hoping you would say Valiant-leader-in-training,” sighs Scott. “Because that’s what Kali wants. She couldn’t shut up about it in the room earlier, talking about being with Ennis and all that bullshit.”

“And it’s what I want,” adds Jackson. “Hopefully I ranked higher than her. . .oh, and all the Valiant-born initiates. Forgot about them.” He groans. “Oh God. This is going to be impossible. At least I was high enough in the first stage. The fear landscapes though. . .”

“You’re going to do fine,” Allison says. She reaches forward and ruffles his hair, giving him a look that dares him to tell her to stop. Jackson just smiles at her.

“Question,” says Scott, leaning forward. “The leaders who were watching your fear landscape. . .they were laughing about something.”

“Oh?” Stiles bites his lip, hard. “I’m glad my terror amuses them.”

“Any idea which obstacle it was?” he asks.

“No.”

“You’re lying,” Scott says. “You always bite the inside of your cheek when you lie. It’s your tell.”

Stiles abruptly stops biting the inside of his cheek.

“Allison’s is running her hands through her hair and not making eye contact, if it makes you feel better,” Scott adds. Allison hits him on the side as he laughs.

“Okay, fine. I was afraid of. . .intimacy,” Stiles says.

“Intimacy,” repeats Scott. “Like. . .sex?”

Stiles tenses up, forcing himself to nod. He tries to throw flames from his eyes. If looks could kill, Scott would be on the ground.

Jackson snickers.

“What was that like?” he asks. “I mean, did someone just. . .try to do it with you? Who was it?”

“Oh, you know. Faceless. . .unidentifiable male,” Stiles say. “I don’t think I’m scared of it anymore.” It takes everything for him not to break into a smirk.

“How were your moths?” He adds, looking at Scott. The smirk he was trying to hold back etches onto his face.

“You promised you would never tell!” cries Scott, smacking his arm.

“Moths,” repeats Allison. “You’re afraid of moths?”

“Not just a cloud of moths,” he says, “like. . .a swarm of them. Everywhere. All those wings and legs and. . ..” Scott shudders and shakes his head.

“Terrifying,” Lydia says with mock seriousness. 

“Oh, shut up.”

A microphone squeals somewhere, so loud Stiles flinches. He looks across the room at Ennis, who stands on one of the tables with the microphone in hand, tapping it with his fingertips. After the tapping is done and the crowd of Valiant is quiet, Ennis clears his throat and begins.

“We aren’t big on speeches here. Eloquence is for Probity,” he says. The crowd laughs. Stiles wonders if they know that Ennis was a Probity once; that under all the pretense of Valiant recklessness and even brutality, he is more like a Probity than anything else. If they did, Stiles doubts they would laugh at him. “So I’m going to keep this short. It’s a new year, and we have a new pack of initiates. And a slightly smaller pack of new members. We offer them our congratulations.”

At the word “congratulations” the room erupts, not into applause, but into the pounding of fists on tabletops. The noise vibrates in Stiles's chest, and he grins.

“We believe in bravery. We believe in taking action. We believe in freedom from fear and in acquiring the skills to force the bad out of our world so that the good can prosper and thrive. If you also believe in those things, we welcome you.”

Even though Stiles knows Ennis probably doesn’t believe in any of those things, he finds himself smiling, because Stiles believes in them. No matter how badly the leaders have warped the Valiant ideals, those ideals can still belong to him.

More pounding fists, this time accompanied by whoops.

“Tomorrow, in their first act as members, our top twenty initiates will choose their professions, in the order of how they are ranked,” Ennis says. “The rankings, I know, are what everyone is really waiting for. They are determined by a combination of three scores—the first, from the combat stage of training; the second, from the simulation stage; and the third, from the final examination, the fear landscape. The rankings will appear on the screen behind me.”

As soon as the word “me” leaves his mouth, the names appear on the screen, which is almost as large as the wall itself. Next to number two is his picture, and the name “Stiles.”

A weight in his chest lifts. He didn’t realize it was there until it was gone, and he didn’t have to feel it anymore. Stiles smiles, and a tingling spreads through him. Second. Aberrant or not, this faction is where he belongs.

Stiles forgets about war; he forgets about death. Isaac’s arms wrap around him and he gives Stiles a bear hug. Stiles hears cheering and laughing and shouting. Lydia points at the screen, her eyes wide and filled with tears.

_ Danny _

_ Stiles _

_ Erica _

_ Scott _

_ Allison _

_ Lydia _

_ Isaac _

_ Jackson _

_ Theo _

_ Kali _

_ Hayden _

_ Greenberg _

Kali stays. Stiles suppress a sigh, then reads the rest of the names.

_ Ethan _

_ Aiden _

Stiles smiles, and reaches across the table to hug Scott. He lets go a minute later, sees Scott turn to Allison, kissing her deeply.

Someone grabs him from behind and shouts in his ear. It’s Danny. Stiles turns around, and Danny grabs him by the shoulder, pulling him to his chest.

“Congratulations!” he shouts.

“You beat them!” Stiles shouts back, laughing wildly. Danny releases him, laughing, and runs into a crowd of Valiant-born initiates.

Stiles cranes his neck to look at the screen again. He follows the list down.

Thirteen through seventeen, and twenty are Valiant-borns whose names he barely recognizes. It doesn’t matter though. He made it.

All around him is the pounding of Valiant fists. Then he feels a tap on his shoulder and turns to see Derek standing behind him. He turns completely to face him, beaming.

“You think giving you a hug would give away too much?” he asks, a smile wide on his face. 

“You know,” Stiles says, “I don’t think I care.” He walks forward, his hands coming up to the sides of Derek’s face, and presses his lips to Derek’s.

It is the best moment of his life.

They stand together like that, Stiles’s hands holding Derek’s head, Derek’s arms around his waist, both of their eyes shut. All of the noise around Stiles fades, and Derek is the only one who matters. His lips are the only thing Stiles can focus on, how they arm and familiar they feel. 

Derek pulls back, moving his hands from around Stiles’s waist. Stiles removes his hands from Derek’s face, leaning their foreheads together. Stiles has never seen Derek smile as wide as he is now.

Derek pulls Stiles into his arms then, and Stiles buries his face into his neck. Behind him, the noise comes back, and Stiles can hear Scott saying, “What the hell?”

Stiles pulls back, his hand holding Derek’s, and turns to see all of his friends staring at him wide-eyed with open mouth gasps, except Danny, who smirks at Stiles.

He feels his face go hot, and he looks at Scott, innocently says, “What?’

“When did this happen!” Scott’s voice gets higher at then end, and Stiles chuckles.

“I don’t really know.” Stiles shrugs. He feels like he’s knows Derek for years, but it’s only been a few months. 

“I seriously can’t believe this.” Lydia says, shaking her head. “Go, Stiles.” 

Stiles turns bright red, turning and hiding his face in Derek’s neck. Derek just chuckles, wrapping his arm around him to keep Stiles there.

“I totally called it.” Danny says, shrugging and laughing.

Stiles laughs, “Oh, yeah, Danny-boy. Laugh it up. You’re just upset you can’t get this anymore.” He motions obscenely to his body, and Danny rolls his eyes.

Danny snorts, says, in his best deadpan voice, “And I’m forever missing out.” 

Stiles laughs again, gets Danny to laugh too. He feels Derek’s grip tighten around him, and Stiles can’t help but smile at his jealousy. 

Everyone stays like that for awhile, just talking and laughing together. It’s a moment Stiles doesn’t want to forget, being surrounded by his new family. He thinks he hears Isaac say, “So that’s why he wasn’t scared of sex anymore,” but ignores it. Nothing can ruin his mood right now.

A moment later, Derek’s thumb brushes over the injection site in Stiles neck where he was rubbing, and a few things come together at once. Stiles doesn’t know how he didn’t figure it out before.

One: Colored serum contains transmitters.

Two: Transmitters connect the mind to a simulation program. 

Three: Tutelage developed the serum.

Four: Ennis and Deucalion are working with the Tutelage.

Stiles breaks away from Derek and stares wide-eyed at him. “Stiles?” he asks, confused.

Stiles shakes his head. “Not now.” He meant to say not here. Not with everyone standing a foot away from him—still staring at Derek and him, probably because he just kissed Derek in front of the entire Valiant compound—and the clamor of the Valiant surrounding them. But Derek has to know how important it is.

“Later,” he says. “Okay?”

Derek nods. He doesn’t even know how he’ll explain it later. He doesn’t even know how to think straight.

But he does know how Tutelage will get them to fight.

 

He tries to get Derek alone after the rankings are announced, but the crowd of initiates and members is too thick, and the force of their congratulations pulls him away from Stiles. He decides to sneak out of the room after everyone is asleep and find him, but the fear landscape exhausted him more than he realized, so soon enough, Stiles drifts off too.

He wakes to squeaking mattresses and shuffling feet. It’s too dark for him to see clearly, but as his eyes adjust, he sees that Scott is tying his boot laces. Stiles opens his mouth to ask him what he’s doing, but then Stiles notice that across from him, Isaac is putting on a shirt. Everyone is awake, but everyone is silent.

“Scott,” he hisses. Scott doesn’t even glance at him, so Stiles grabs his shoulder and shakes it. “Scott!”

He just keeps tying his laces.

Stiles's stomach squeezes when he sees Scott's face. His eyes are open, but blank, and her facial muscles are slack. But that isn’t what surprises Stiles. Scott’s eyes are stinging bright golden, like he’s shifted. Stiles can see fangs poking out of his lips, and claws in place of fingernails. He moves without looking at what he’s doing, his mouth half-open, not awake but seeming awake. And everyone else looks just like him, save Lydia and a couple others who are banshees, or those who have killed innocents (their eyes shining blue) but even Lydia's eyes shine bright purple.

“Isaac?” Stiles asks, crossing the room. All the initiates fall into a line when they finish dressing. They start to file silently out of the room. Stiles grabs Scott’s arm to keep him from leaving, but he moves forward with irrepressible force. Stiles grits his teeth and holds on as hard as he can, digging his heels into the ground. Scott just drags him along with him.

They’re sleepwalkers.

Stiles fumbles for his boots. He can’t stay there alone. He ties his boots in a hurry, pulls on a jacket, and sprints out of the room, catching up to the line of initiates quickly, conforming his pace to theirs. It takes him a few seconds to realize that they move in unison, the same foot forward as the same arm swings back. Stiles mimics them as best as he can, but the rhythm feels strange to him.

They march toward the Hole, but when they reach the entrance, the front of the line turns left. Deucalion stands in the hallway, watching them. Stiles's heart hammers in his chest and he stares as vacantly as possible ahead of him, focusing on the rhythm of his feet. Stiles tenses as he passes him. He’ll notice. He’ll notice Stiles isn't brain-dead like the rest of them and something bad will happen to him, Stiles knows it.

Deucalion’s dark Alpha eyes pass right over him.

They climb a flight of stairs and travel at the same rhythm down four corridors. Then the hallway opens up to a huge cavern. Inside it is a crowd of Valiant.

There are rows of tables with mounds of black on them. Stiles can’t see what the piles are until he is a foot away from them. Guns.

Of course. Ennis said every Valiant was injected yesterday. So now the entire sector is brain-dead, obedient, and trained to kill. Perfect soldiers.

Stiles picks up a gun and a holster and a belt, copying Jackson, who is directly in front of him. His kanima eyes look absolutely terrifying, and Stiles can see hints of scales all over his body. It makes Stiles shudder. He tries to match Jackson's movements, but he can’t predict what he’s going to do, so he ends up fumbling more than he’d like to. Stiles grits his teeth.

_ I just have to trust that no one is watching me. _

Once he's armed, Stiles follows Jackson and the other initiates toward the exit.

He can’t wage war against Idem, against his family. He would rather die. His fear landscape proved that. His list of options narrows, and he sees the path he must take. He will pretend long enough to get to the Idem sector of the city. He will save his family. And whatever happens after that doesn’t matter. A blanket of calm settles over him. He can do this.

The line of initiates passes into a dark hallway. Stiles can’t see Scott or Isaac or anyone ahead of him, or anything ahead at all. His foot hits something hard, and he stumbles, his hands outstretched. His knees hit something else—a step. Stiles straightens, so tense his teeth are almost chattering. It’s too dark.

_ They didn’t see that. Please let it be too dark.  _

Werewolf night vision can only work so much, right?

As the staircase turns, light flows into the cavern, until Stiles can finally see Jackson’s shoulders in front of him again. He focuses on matching his rhythm to Jackson's as he reaches the top of the stairs, passing another Valiant leader. Now he knows who the Valiant leaders are, because they are the only people who are awake, their eyes a normal color, except Deucalion’s. Stiles just hopes they remember that he is human, and that his eyes don’t change like the supernatural’s do.

Well, not the only people. Stiles must be awake because he’s Aberrant. And if he is awake, that means Derek is too, unless Stiles is wrong about him. He’s had his suspicions about Derek, and he’s almost certain that Derek is also Aberrant.

_ I have to find him. _

Stiles stands next to the train tracks in a group that stretches as far as he can see with his peripheral vision. The train is stopped in front of them, every car open. One by one, the initiates climb into the train car in front of them.

Stiles can’t turn his head to scan the crowd for Derek, but he lets his eyes skirt to the side. The faces on his left are unfamiliar, but he sees a man with dark black hair with familiar muscles a few yards to his right. It might not be Derek, and Stiles can’t make sure, but it’s the best chance he has. He doesn’t know how to get to him without attracting attention.

_ I have to get to him. _

The car in front of him fills up, and Jackson turns toward the next one. Stiles takes his cues from him, but instead of stopping where he stops, Stiles slips a few feet to the right. The people around him are all taller and more muscular than he is; they will shield him. Stiles steps to the right again, clenching his teeth. Too much movement. _They will catch him. Please don’t catch me._

A blank-faced Valiant with bright blue eyes in the next car offers a hand to the boy in front of Stiles, and he takes it, his movements robotic. Stiles takes the next hand without looking at it, and climbs as gracefully as he can into the car.

He stands facing the person who helped him. His eyes twitch up a little, just for a second, to see his face. Derek, as blank-faced as the rest of them, with his bright red Alpha eyes. Was he wrong? Is he not Aberrant? Stiles feels his throat tighten, and before it shows on his face, he turns away from Derek.

People crowd into the car around Stiles, so they stand in four rows, shoulder-to- shoulder. And then something peculiar happens: fingers lace with his, and a palm presses to his palm. Derek, holding his hand. 

Stiles's entire body is alive with energy. He squeezes Derek's hand, and he squeezes back. He is awake. Stiles was right.

He wants to look at him, but he forces himself to stand still and keep his eyes forward as the train starts to move. Derek moves his thumb in a slow circle over the back of Stiles's hand. It’s meant to comfort him, but it frustrates him instead. He needs to talk to him. He needs to look at him.

Stiles can’t see where the train is going because the girl in front of him is so tall, so he stares at the back of her head and focuses on Derek’s hand in his until the rails squeal. He doesn’t know how long they've been standing there, but his back aches, so it must have been a long time. The train screeches to a stop, and Stiles's heart pounds so hard it’s difficult to breathe.

Right before they jump down from the car, Stiles sees Derek turn his head in his periphery, and he glances back at him. Derek's red eyes are insistent as he says, “Run.”

“My family,” Stiles says, choking on his words.

He looks straight ahead again, and jumps down from the train car when it’s his turn. Derek walks in front of him. Stiles should focus on the back of his head, but the streets he walks now are familiar, and the line of Valiant he follows fades from his attention. Stiles passes heather’s old house; the bus stop where he once waited in the morning to get to school; the strip of sidewalk so cracked he and Scott played a hopping, jumping game to get across it.

They are all different now. The buildings are dark and empty. The roads are packed with Valiant soldiers, all shifted in differing various forms, all marching at the same rhythm except the officers, who stand every few hundred yards, watching them walk by, or gathering in clusters to discuss something. No one seems to be doing anything. Are they really here for war?

Stiles walks a half mile before he gets an answer to that question.

He starts to hear loud bangs. He can’t look around to see where they’re coming from, but the farther he walks, the louder and sharper they get, until he recognizes them as gunshots. Stiles clenches his jaw. He has to keep walking; he needs to stare straight ahead.

Far ahead of them, Stiles see a Valiant soldier push a thin-bared, gray-clothed man to his knees. Stiles recognizes the man—it’s one of the old mans on his street. The soldier takes her gun out of her holster and, with sightless eyes, glowing bright gold, fires a bullet into the back of his skull.

The soldier’s eyes change slightly, and Stiles can see that her eyes are now a bright blue. His steps almost falter.

His eyes burn.

_ Keep walking. Keep walking. _

They march past the soldier and the fallen man. When Stiles steps over his hand, he almost bursts into tears.

Then the soldiers in front of him stop walking, and so he does too. He stands as still as he can, but all he wants to do is find Gerard and Deucalion and Ennis and shoot them all. Stiles’s hands are shaking and he can’t do anything to stop it. He breathes quickly through his nose.

Another gunshot. From the corner of his left eye, Stiles sees a gray blur collapse to the pavement. All the Idem will die if this continues.

The Valiant soldiers carry out unspoken orders without hesitation and without question. Some adult members of Idem are herded toward one of the nearby buildings, along with the Idem children. A sea of black-clothed soldiers guard the doors. The only people Stiles does not see are the Idem leaders, which only means that they’re more well known than any other humans. Maybe they are already dead.

One by one, the Valiant soldiers in front of him step away to perform one task or another. Soon the leaders will notice that whatever signals everyone else is getting, Stiles isn’t getting them.

_ What will I do when that happens? _

“This is insane,” coos a male voice on his right. Stiles sees a lock of dark hair and tan skin. Ennis. He pokes Stiles's cheek with his index finger, and he struggles against the impulse to slap his hand away.

“They really can’t see us? Or hear us?” another voice asks.

“Oh, they can see and hear. They just aren’t processing what they see and hear the same way,” says Deucalion. “The eyes are a side affect. Their supernatural abilities come out, but that’s useful. Well, all except that one.” Deucalion continues, and Stiles sees him pointing to him in his peripheral. "They receive commands from our computers in the transmitters we injected them with. . .” At this, he presses his fingers to the injection site to show the man where it is. , Stiles tells himself. “. . .and carry them out seamlessly.”

_ Stay still. Still, still, still. _

Ennis shifts a step to the side and leans close to Derek’s face, grinning.

“Now, this is a happy sight,” he says. “The legendary Hale. No one’s going to remember that I came in second now, are they? No one’s going to ask me, ‘What was it like to train with the guy who has only four fears?’” He draws his gun and points it at Derek’s right temple. Stiles's heart pounds so hard he feels it in his skull. He can’t shoot; he wouldn’t. Ennis tilts his head. “Did you hear that?” He looks around, settling on Stiles, and Stiles has to force himself to calm down. They can all hear his heartbeat. He needs to calm down. Ennis turns back to Derek, "Think anyone would notice if he accidentally got shot?”

“Go ahead,” the man says, sounding bored. He must be a Valiant leader if he can give Ennis permission. “He’s nothing now.”

“Too bad you didn’t just take Duke up on his offer, Hale. Well, too bad for you, anyway,” says Ennis quietly, as he clicks the bullet into its chamber.

Stiles's lungs burn; he hasn’t breathed in almost a minute. He sees Derek’s hand twitch in the corner of his eye, but Stiles's hand is already on his gun. He presses the barrel to Ennis’s forehead. His eyes widen, and his face goes slack, and for a second he looks like another sleeping Valiant soldier without the supernatural eyes.

Stiles's index finger hovers over the trigger. “Get your gun away from his head,” he says.

 “You won’t shoot me,” Ennis replies.

“Interesting theory,” Stiles says. But he can’t murder him; he can’t. Stiles grits his teeth, “But I doubt a regular bullet will do much good. Too bad I don’t care enough,” he says, and in one swift movement, shifts his arm down, firing at Ennis’s foot. He shouts and grabs his foot with both hands. The moment his gun is no longer pointed at Derek’s head, Derek draws his gun and fires at Ennis’s friend’s leg. Stiles doesn’t wait to see if the bullet hits her, just grabs Derek’s arm and sprints.

If they can make it to the alley, hey can disappear into the buildings and they won’t find them. There are two hundred yards to go. Stiles hears footsteps behind him, but he doesn’t look back. Derek grabs his hand and squeezes, pulling him forward, faster than he has ever run, faster than he can run. Stiles stumbles behind him. He hears a gunshot.

The pain is sharp and sudden, beginning in Stiles's shoulder and spreading outward with electric fingers. A scream stops in his throat, and he falls, his cheek scraping the pavement. Stiles lifts his head to see Derek’s knees by his face, and yells, “Run!”

His voice is calm and quiet as he replies, “No.”

In seconds, they are surrounded. Derek helps him up, supporting his weight. Sties has trouble focusing through the pain. Valiant soldiers surround them and point their guns.

“Aberrant rebels,” Ennis says, standing on both feet, his bright red eyes looking absolutely murderous. His face is a sickly white. “Surrender your weapons.”

 

Stiles leans heavily on Derek. A gun barrel pressed to his spine urges him forward, through the front doors of where the Choosing was held, a plain gray building, two stories high. Blood trickles down his side. But he’s not afraid of what’s coming; he's in too much pain to think about it.

The gun barrel pushes him toward a door guarded by two Valiant soldiers. Derek and he walk through it and enter a plain office that contains just a desk, a computer, and two empty chairs. Gerard sits behind the desk, a phone against his ear.

“Well, send some of them back on the train, then,” he says. “It needs to be well guarded, it’s the most important part—I’m not talk—I have to go.” She snaps the phone shut and focuses his dark eyes on Stiles. They remind him of melted steel.

“Aberrant rebels,” one of the Valiant says. He must be a Valiant leader—or maybe a recruit who was removed from the simulation.

“Yes, I can see that.” Gerard snaps, adjusting his blue blazer.

“You,” he says, pointing at Stiles, “I expected. All the trouble with your aptitude test results made me suspicious from the beginning. But you. . .”

Gerard shakes his head as he shifts his eyes to Derek.

“You, Derek—or should I call you Hale?—managed to elude me,” he says, chuckling. “Everything about you checked out: test results, initiation simulations, everything. But here you are nonetheless.” He folds his hands and sets his chin on top of them. “Perhaps you could explain to me how that is?”

“You’re the genius,” Derek says coolly. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Gerard's mouth curls into a smile. “My theory is that you really do belong in Idem. That your Aberrance is weaker.”

Gerard smiles wider, like he’s amused. Stiles grits his teeth and considers lunging across the table and strangling him. If he didn’t have a bullet in his shoulder, he might.

“Your powers of deductive reasoning are stunning,” spits Derek. His eyes are their normal dark color now, the first time Stiles has noticed. He must be able to control it, like a switch from normal to Alpha. “Consider me awed.”

Stiles look sideways at him. He had almost forgotten about this side of Derek—the part that is more likely to explode than to lie down and die, the part that isn’t gentle and loving and isn’t caring for Stiles.

“Now that your intelligence has been verified, you might want to get on with killing us.” Derek closes his eyes. “You have a lot of Idem leaders to murder, after all.”

If Derek’s comments bother Gerard, he doesn’t let on. He keeps smiling and stands smoothly. The room spins as Stiles tries to focus on his face, and he slumps against Derek for support. He slides his arm around Stiles, supporting him from the waist.

“Don’t be silly. There is no rush,” Gerard says, his tone like ice slipping from his lips. “You’re both here for an extremely important purpose. You see, it perplexed me that the Aberrant were immune to the serum that I developed, so I have been working to remedy that. I thought I might have, with the last batch, but as you know, I was wrong. Luckily I have another batch to test.”

“Why bother?” He and the Valiant leaders had no problem killing the Aberrant in the past. Why would it be any different now?

Gerard smirks at him.

“I’ve had a question since I began the Valiant project, and it is this.” He sidesteps his desk, skimming the surface with his finger. “Why are most of the Aberrant weak-willed,  well, except for you, Derek, you totally threw me for a loop there, God-fearing nobodies, humans, from Idem, of all sectors?”

Stiles didn’t know that most of the Aberrant came from Idem, and he doesn’t know why that would be, besides maybe the fact they they are humans. And he probably won’t live long enough to figure it out.

“Weak-willed,” Derek scoffs. “It requires a strong will to manipulate a simulation, last time I checked. Weak-willed is mind-controlling an army because it’s too hard for you to train one yourself.”

“I’m not a fool,” says Gerard. “A sector of intellectuals is no army. We are tired of being dominated by a bunch of self-submissive idiots who reject inferiority and advancement, but we couldn’t do this on our own. And your Valiant leaders were all too happy to oblige me if I guaranteed them a place in our new, improved government.”

“Improved,” Derek says, snorting.

“Yes, improved,” Gerard replies, his ugly smile on his face. “Improved, and working toward a world in which people will live in wealth, comfort, and prosperity.”

“At whose expense?” Stiles asks, his voice thick and sluggish. “All that wealth. . .doesn’t come from nowhere.”

“Currently, the sectorless are a drain on our resources,” Gerard replies. “As is Idem. I’m sure that once the remains of your old sector are absorbed into the Valiant army, Probity will cooperate and we will finally be able to get on with things.”

Absorbed into the Valiant army. Stiles knows what that means—he wants to control them, too. He wants everyone to be pliable and easy to control.

“Get on with things,” Derek repeats bitterly. He raises his voice. “Make no mistake. You will be dead before the day is out, you—”

“Perhaps if you could control your temper,” Gerard says, his words cutting cleanly across Derek’s, “you would not be in this situation to begin with, Derek.”

“I’m in this situation because you put me here,” he snaps. “The second you orchestrated an attack against innocent people.”

“Innocent people.” Gerard laughs. “I find that a little funny, coming from you. I would expect Kate’s lover to understand that not all those people are innocent.” He sits on the edge of the desk, his shirt pulling away from his stomach, which are crossed with old wrinkles and dark marks.  “Can you tell me honestly that you wouldn’t be happy to discover that my daughter was killed in the attack?”

“No,” says Derek through gritted teeth. “I’m not Peter. But at least her evil didn’t involve the widespread manipulation of an entire sector and the systematic murder of every human leader we have.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds, long enough to make Stiles feel tense to his core, and then Gerard laughs.

“What I was going to say,” he says, “is that soon, dozens of the Idem and their young human children will be my responsibility to keep in order, and it does not bode well for me that a large number of them may be Aberrant like yourselves, incapable of being controlled by the simulations.”

He stands and walks a few steps to the left, his hands clasped behind him. 

“Therefore, it was necessary that I develop a new form of simulation to which they are not immune. I have been forced to reassess my own assumptions. That is where you come in.” He paces a few steps to the right. “You are correct to say that you are strong-willed. I cannot control your will. But there are a few things I can control.”

Gerard stops and turns to face them. Stiles leans his weight into Derek, needing someone to anchor him. Blood trails down his back. The pain has been so constant for the past few minutes that he's gotten used to it, like a person gets used to a siren’s wail if it remains consistent.

Gerard presses his palms together. Stiles sees no vicious glee in his eyes, and only a hint of the sadism he expects  He is more machine than maniac. He sees problems and forms solutions based on the data he collects. Idem stood in the way of his desire for power, so he found a way to eliminate it. He didn’t have an army, so he found one in Valiant. He knew that he would need to control large groups of people in order to stay secure, so he developed a way to do it with serums and transmitters. Aberrance is just another problem for him to solve, and that is what makes him so terrifying—because he is smart enough to solve anything, even the problem of their existence.

“I can control what you see and hear,” he says. “So I created a new serum that will adjust your surroundings to manipulate your will. Those who refuse to accept our leadership must be closely monitored.”

Monitored—or robbed of free will. Gerard has a gift with words.

“You will be the first test subject, Derek. Stiles, however...” Gerard smiles. “You are too injured to be of much use to me, so your execution will occur at the conclusion of this meeting.”

Stiles tries to hide the shudder that goes through him at the word “execution,” his shoulder screaming with pain, and looks at Derek. It’s hard to blink the tears back when he sees the terror in Derek’s wide, dark eyes.

“No,” says Derek. His voice trembles, but his look is stern as he shakes his head. “I would rather die.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice in the matter,” replies Gerard lightly, his crooked teeth showing .

Derek takes Stiles's face in his hands roughly and kisses him, the pressure of his lips pushing Stiles's apart. Stiles forgets his pain and the terror of approaching death and for a moment, he is grateful that the memory of that kiss will be fresh in his mind as he meets his end. If it wasn’t going to happen in Valiant, it was going to happen somewhere.

Then Derek releases him and he has to lean against the wall for support. With no more warning than the tightening of his muscles, Derek lunges across the desk and wraps his hands around Gerard’s throat. Valiant guards by the door leap at him, their guns held ready, and Stiles screams.

It takes two half-wolfed out Valiant soldiers to pull Derek away from Gerard and shove him to the ground. One of the soldiers pins him, his knees on Derek’s shoulders and his hands on Derek’s head, pressing his face to the carpet. Stiles lunges toward them, but another guard slams his hands against his shoulders, forcing him against the wall. Stiles is weak from blood loss and too human to do anything.

Gerard braces himself against the desk, spluttering and gasping. He rubs his throat, which is bright red with Derek’s fingerprints. No matter how mechanical he seems, he’s still an emotional creature, werewolf or not; his eyes look absolutely murderous, however, as he takes a box from his desk drawer and opens it, revealing a needle and syringe.

Still breathing heavily, he carries it toward Derek. Tobias grits his teeth and elbows one of the guards in the face. The guard slams the heel of his gun with a claw at Derek’s throat into the side of his head, and Gerard sticks the needle into Derek’s neck. He goes limp.

A sound escapes Stiles's mouth, not a sob or a scream, but a croaking, scraping moan that sounds detached, like it’s coming from someone else.

“Let him up,” says Gerard, his voice scratchy.

The guard gets up, and so does Derek. He does not look like the sleepwalking Valiant soldiers; his eyes are alert, though his claws are extended and his fangs are showing, but his eyes are not red. He looks around for a few seconds as if confused by what he sees.

“Derek,” Stiles says. “ _Derek!_ ”

“He doesn’t know you,” says Gerard, a smirk on his lips.

Derek looks over his shoulder. His eyes narrow and he starts toward Stiles, fast. Before the guards can stop him, he closes a hand around Stiles's throat, squeezing his trachea with his fingertips and shoves him more than a foot off the ground against the wall. Stiles’s hands close around Derek’s wrist, right on his pule point. It’s being too fast. His claws puncture the surrounding skin of Stiles’s neck, and Stiles is almost certain Derek is going to rip his throat out if someone doesn’t stop him. Stiles chokes, his face hot with blood.

“The simulation manipulates him,” says Gerard. Stiles can barely hear him over the pounding in his ears and the feeling of warm blood sliding down his neck. “By altering what he sees—making him confuse enemy with friend.”

One of the guards pulls Derek off him. Stiles gasps, drawing a rattling breath into his lungs.

He’s gone. Controlled by the simulation, he will now murder the people he called innocent not three minutes ago. Gerard killing Stiles would have hurt less than this.

“The advantage to this version of the simulation,” he says, his eyes alight, “is that he can act independently, and is therefore far more effective than a mindless soldier.” Gerard looks at the guards who hold Derek back. He struggles against them, his muscles taut, his eyes focused on Stiles, but not seeing him, not seeing him the way they used to. It takes all of their werewolf energy, Stiles can tell. It’s not easy to hold back a murderous Alpha. “Send him to the control room. We’ll want a sentient being there to monitor things and, as I understand it, he has knowledge of that.”

Gerard presses his palms together in front of him. “And take him to room B13,” he says. He flaps his hand to dismiss Stiles. That flapping hand commands his execution, but to Gerard, it’s just crossing off an item from a list of tasks, the only logical progression of the particular path that he is on. Gerard surveys him without feeling as two Valiant soldiers pull him out of the room.

They drag Stiles down the hallway. He feels numb inside, but outside he’s a screaming, thrashing force of will. He bites a hand that belongs to the Valiant man on his right and smiles as he tastes blood. Then the man hits him, and there is nothing.

-

He wakes in the dark, wedged in a hard corner. The floor beneath him is smooth and cold. He touches his throbbing head and liquid slips across his fingertips. Red—blood. When he brings his hand back down, his elbow hits a wall.

_ Where am I? _

A light flickers above him. The bulb is blue and dim when it’s lit. Stiles sees the walls of a tank around him, and his shadowed reflection across from him. The room is small, with concrete walls and no windows, and he’s utterly alone in it. Well, almost—a small video camera is attached to one of the concrete walls.

Stiles sees a small opening near his feet. Connected to it is a tube, and connected to the tube, in the corner of the room, is a huge tank.

The trembling starts in his fingertips and spreads up his arms, and soon his body is shuddering.

He's not in a simulation this time.

His right arm is numb. When he pushes himself out of the corner, he sees a small pool of blood where he was sitting. He can’t panic now, not when Derek and all the others in Idem are in trouble. He needs to get out of this. He stands, leaning against a wall, and breathes a deep breathe, steading himself. The worst thing that can happen to him now is that he drowns in this tank. Stiles presses his forehead to the glass and laughs. That’s the worst thing he can imagine. His laugh turns into a frustrated shout.

If he refuses to give up now, it will look brave to whoever watches him with that camera, but sometimes it isn’t fighting that’s brave, it’s facing the death that’s coming. Stiles bangs into the glass. He's not afraid of dying, but he wants to die a different way, any other way.

It’s better to scream than cry, so he screams and slams his heel into the wall behind him. His foot bounces off, and he kicks again, so hard his heel throbs. He kicks again and again and again, then pull backs and throws his left shoulder into the wall. The impact makes the wound in his right shoulder burn like it got stuck with a hot poker.

Water trickles into the bottom of the tank.

The video camera means someone's watching him—no, studying him, as only the Tutelage would. To see if his reaction in reality matches his reaction in the simulation. To prove that he's a coward.

Stiles uncurls his fists and drops his hands. He lifts his head and stares at the camera across from him. If he focuses on breathing, he can forget that he's about to die. He stares at the camera until his vision narrows and it’s all he sees. Water tickles his ankles, then his calves, then his thighs. It rises over his fingertips. He breathes in; he breathes out. The water is soft and feels like silk.

_ I am not a coward. _

Stiles breathes in. The water will wash his wounds clean. He breathes out. He remembers swimming in a small pond once, when things weren’t as bad, when no one cared if a tiny human was splashing in a his rain puddle. He remembers his mothers taking him back inside and clutching a cross around her neck, which he never understood. A cross symbolizes God, but he doesn’t know how his mother got it, or why his mom would believe in a God that was cruel enough to evoke torture on his creations. It's been a long time since he thought about God, but he thinks about him now. It’s only natural. He's glad, suddenly, that he shot Ennis in the foot instead of the head.

His body rises with the water. Instead of kicking his feet to stay abreast of it, he pushes all the air from his lungs and sinks to the bottom. The water muffles his ears. He feels its movement over his face. 

He needs to get out of this.

Relax. He closes his eyes. His lungs burn.

What did he do in the simulation? Blocked the tube. Suddenly, his eyes spring open, and he rips off his jacket, completely standing so his face is above water. He has to tilt it up so he can breathe. He takes a deep breathe and plunges into the water again. He needs to block the tube.

He shoves his jacket in the tube, jumps up and takes another deep breathe. His vision has black spots in it, and he feels airy around the edges. His body aches, but he can’t think of that now. 

He hears a groaning sound, and looks around. 

A dark figure stands in front of him, on the other side of the glass. A palm presses to the glass in front of his face, and for a moment as he stares through the water, he thinks he sees his fahter’s blurry face. He hears a muffled, “Stiles!'

Before he can think too much, he hears another groan, then a bang, and the glass cracks. Water sprays out a hole near the top of the tank, and the pane cracks in half. Stiles turns away as the glass shatters, and the force of the water throws his body at the ground. He gasps, swallowing water as well as air, and coughs, and gasps again, and hands close around his arms, and then he hears his voice.

“Stiles,” he says. “Stiles, we have to run.”

His dad pulls his arm across his shoulders and hauls him to his feet. He is dressed like Stiles’s father and he looks like his father, but he is holding a gun, and the determined look in his eyes is unfamiliar to Stiles. He stumbles beside his dad over broken glass and through water and out an open doorway. Valiant guards lie dead next to the door.

Stiles’s feet slip and slide on the tile as they walk down the hallway, as fast as his weak legs can muster. When they turn the corner, he fires at the two guards standing by the door at the end. The bullets hit them both in the head, and they slump to the floor. He pushes Stiles against the wall and takes off his thin jacket.

He wears a t-shirt. When he lifts his arm, Stiles sees the corner of a tattoo under his shirt. No wonder he never changed clothes in front of Stiles.

“Dad,” he says, his voice strained. “You were Valiant.”

“Yes,” he says, smiling. His dad makes his jacket into a sling for his arm, tying the sleeves around his neck. “And it has served me well today. Your mother and some others are hiding in a basement at the intersection of North and Fairfield. We have to go get them.”

Stiles just stares at him. They sat next to each other at the raggedy kitchen table, twice a day, for eighteen years, and never once did Stiles consider the possibility that he could have been anything but Idem-born. How well did he actually know his father?

“There will be time for questions,” he says. His dad lifts his shirt again and slips a gun from under the waistband of his pants, offering it to Stiles. Then he touches Stiles's cheek. “Now we must go.”

He runs to the end of the hallway, and Stiles runs after him.

They’re in the basement of where the Choosing was held. His mother has worked there for as long as he can remember, so he's not surprised when his dad knows the way and leads him down a few dark hallways, up a dank staircase, and into daylight again without interference.

_ How many Valiant guards did he shoot before he found me? _

“How did you know to find me?” Stiles asks.

“I’ve been watching the trains since the attacks started,” he replies, glancing over his shoulder at Stiles. “I didn’t know what I would do when I found you. But it was always my intention to save you.”

Stiles's throat feels tight. “I think I beat you to that one, Dad.” He takes a deep breath. "But I betrayed you. I left you.”

“You’re my son, Stiles. I don’t care about the sectors.” He shakes his head. “Look where they got us. Human beings as a whole can’t be good for long before the bad creeps back in and poisons us again.”

He stops where the alley intersects with the road.

Stiles knows now isn’t the time for conversation. But there are things he needs to know. “Dad, how do you know about Aberrance?” he asks. “What is it? Why. . .”

His dad pushes the bullet chamber open and peers inside. Seeing how many bullets he has left. Then takes a few out of his pocket and reloads. Stiles recognizes his expression as the one he wears when he talks about the government.

“I know about them because I am one,” he says as he shoves a bullet in place. “I was only safe because my dad was a Valiant leader. On Choosing Day, he told me to leave my sector and find a safer one. I chose Idem. But that was back when humans weren’t accepted in Valiant. I was the exception.” He puts an extra bullet in his pocket and stands up straighter. “But I wanted you to make the choice on your own.”

“I don’t understand why we’re such a threat to the leaders.”

“Every sector conditions its members to think and act a certain way. And most people do it. For most people, it’s not hard to learn, to find a pattern of thought that works and stay that way.” His dad touches his uninjured shoulder and smiles. “But our minds move in a dozen different directions. We can’t be confined to one way of thinking, and that terrifies our leaders. It means we can’t be controlled. And it means that no matter what they do, we will always cause trouble for them.”

Stiles feels like someone breathed new air into his lungs. He’s not Idem. He's not Valiant.

He is Aberrant.

And he can’t be controlled.

“Here they come,” his dad says, looking around the corner. Stiles peeks over his shoulder and sees a few Valiant with guns, moving to the same beat, heading towards them. His dad looks back. Far behind them, another group of Valiant run down the alley, towards them, moving in time with one another.

He grabs Stiles's arms and looks him in the eyes. Stiles watches his dark eyes narrow in on his own. 

“Go to your mother and the others. The alley on the right, down to the basement. Knock twice, then three times, then six times.” He brings Stiles into a bear hug. Stiles feels his heart pound with adrenaline. They can do this. His dad's hands are cold; his palms are rough. “I’m going to distract them. You have to run as fast as you can.”

“No.” Stiles shakes his head, feels his dad slip a hand up and into his hair. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“I might not make it, Stiles.” He smiles. “Be brave, Mieczysław. I love you.”

Stiles feels his lips on the side of his hair and then he runs into the middle of the street. He holds his gun above his head and fires three times into the air. The Valiant start running.

Stiles sprints across the street and into the alley. As he runs, Stiles looks over his shoulder to see if any Valiant follow him. But his father fires into the crowd of guards, and they’re too focused on him to notice Stiles.

Stiles whips his head over his shoulder when he hears them fire back. His feet falter and stop.

His father stiffens, his back arching. Stiles holds his breath. His father stands upright again, a wicked smile on his face. Stiles can’t help but to smile as well. 

He finishes running, reaching the side of another building. His dad shoots another Valiant soldier, and another one comes up behind him. Stiles doesn’t even think about pulling up the gun and firing. When he sees the body on the ground, he sees that it’s one of the Valiant-borns, someone he didn’t know. He finds it hard to feel sympathetic.

His dad turns his body at Stiles, a grin on his face. Every Valiant soldier surrounding them is dead, so his dad runs over to him and pulls him into another hug.

“I thought I told you to keep running.” His dad says, pulling back.

Stiles smiles, “I guess going to Valiant made me susceptible to rebellion.”

His dad just smiles at him.

“C’mon. We need to get going. Someone is bound to come with that noise.” 

Stiles nods, and they run out through the ally. 

He feels alive and free. 

He feels Derek brushing his fingers over his neck before the first simulation. He hears him telling him to be brave. 

The Valiant soldiers all lying dead are living proof of his father’s bravery. All Stiles needs to do is be brave for his dad. 

_ I am brave. _

-

Five Valiant soldiers pursue them .They run in unison, their footsteps echoing in the alley. One of them fires, and Stiles dives, scraping his palms on the ground. The bullet hits the brick wall to his right, and pieces of brick spray everywhere. Stiles throws himself around the corner and clicks a bullet into the chamber of his gun, his dad following.

He points the gun into the alley and fires blindly. As long as he’s fighting back, he’s being brave.

Just one set of footsteps now. His dad must have hit two of them. Stiles holds the gun out with both hands and stands at the end of the alley, pointing at the Valiant soldier. His finger squeezes the trigger, but not hard enough to fire. The man running toward him is not a man, he is a boy. A dark-haired boy with a crooked jaw.

Scott. Golden-eyed and mindless, but still Scott. He stops running and mirrors Stiles, his feet planted and his gun up. In an instant, Stiles sees his finger poised over the trigger and hears the bullet slide into the chamber, and Stiles fires, his eyes squeezed shut. He can’t breathe.

The bullet hit him behind the head. Stiles knows because that’s where he aimed it.

It doesn’t stop Scott, however, as he stands motionless. Stiles raises his gun up in surrender, his dad behind him yelling for him to stop, but Stiles can’t let it go. He needs to help Scott. He walks towards him, racking his mind on how to help him. The tracker in his neck. It must be it. If Stiles can break it or disable it, he can stop Scott.

“Hey, Scotty. I know you can't hear me right now, but I’m going to help you okay?” Stiles says, walking towards him. He crouches into a fighting position. 

Scott doesn’t move, just fires his gun. Stiles dodges the bullet, saw it coming even before he walked towards Scott, and lunges. He knocks Scott’s gun out of his hands, causing Scott to tumble. Stiles grabs him and puts him into a headlock, Scott’s arms raised up as he thrashes.

“Scott!” Stiles yells, but Scott’s wolfed out and can’t function under the serum. He thrashes again in Stiles’s arms, and this time he succeeds, turning and swiping his claws against Stiles’s right cheek. Stiles stumbles back, crying out in pain. Scott jumps on his then, pushing him to the ground and pining him.

His knee is pushed into Stiles’s throat, crushing his trachea. It reminds Stiles of when he was being choked over the chasm, only the rushing in his ears isn’t the water, it’s his heart. 

Suddenly, Scott’s weight is dragged off of him, and Stiles coughs, holding his throat. He sees his dad struggling to hold Scott and jumps to his feet, walking over and staring at Scott in his golden eyes. Scott is growling at him, trying to snap at him with his elongated fangs.

“I’m sorry, Scotty.” Stiles says, moving to Scott’s neck. He feels around for the injection site, feels it slightly raised in his skin. Stiles grabs down hard, drawing blood as Scott howls in pain, and maneuvers his fingers through the wound, before they clasp around the tiny tracker. He yanks it out and studies it between his fingers. There are bits of flesh in some of the crevices, but before Stiles looks at it anymore, he thrown it on the cement, stomping it with his boot. Scott suddenly stops moving, slack in his dad’s arms, and Stiles moves to grab one of his arms and pull it over his neck.

“Stiles. What the hell was that?” His dad asks, taking Scott’s other arm. The wound in Scott’s neck is already healing.

“I had to save him, Dad. I couldn’t let him just be a mindless soldier.” Stiles replies.

His dad is quiet for a minute, as they walk along. Then he nods. “Good thinking, kid.”

Stiles tries not to grin as they stumble away from the alley. North and Fairfield. He has to look at the street sign to see where he is. He blinks a few times. They stand just yards away from the building that contains what’s left of Idem’s future.

Stiles stands next to the door, careful not to make any noise. Derek would call him unwise to make any noise. Noise might attract Valiant soldiers, like that loud howl Scott let out not two minutes ago.

Stiles presses his forehead to the wall and groans. His body is in too much pain for the adrenaline of him to keep going, but he can’t help the pain in his heart. Every time he thinks of Derek, he misses him more. Stiles takes a deep breathe, steadying himself. He needs a clear head right now.

After a few seconds, he’s alright and can think clearly again. He’s going to save Derek. It just might take a while. But he refuses to leave him behind.

His dad pounds on the door—twice, then three times, then six times, as he previously told Stiles to. Scott’s deadweight feels heavier and heavier as they stand.

The door opens, and Allison stands in the doorway. The sight of her stuns Stiles. She stares at him for a few seconds and then throws her arms around him, her hand pressing to the wound in Stiles's shoulder. Stiles bites his lip to keep from crying out, but a groan escapes him anyway, and Allison yanks back.

“Stiles. Oh God, are you shot? Oh, Scott.”

“Let’s go inside,” he says weakly.

She looks at Scott and her eyes tear up, and she drags her thumb under her eyes, catching the moisture. The door falls shut behind them.

The room is dimly lit, but Stiles sees familiar faces, former neighbors and classmates and his mother’s coworkers. His mother, who stares at him with tears in her eyes. And a woman. And Stiles recognizes her. It’s the same woman from Derek’s fear landscape. The sight of her makes Stiles ache—Derek. . .

No.  _ I will not do that; I will not think of him. _

“How did you know about this place?” Allison says. “Your Dad told you?” Stiles nods. His shoulder aches.

“My shoulder,” he says.

Now that he is safe, the adrenaline that propelled him here is fading, and the pain is getting worse. Stiles lays Scott on the ground as he sinks to his knees. 

A woman named Braeden who lived down the street from him rolls out a pallet. She was married to one of his dad’s friends, but Stiles doesn’t see him here. He is probably dead.

Someone else carries a lamp from one corner to the other so they have light. Allison produces a first-aid kit, and another girl Stiles doesn’t recognize brings him a bottle of water. There is no better place to need help than a room full of members of Idem. He glances at Allison. She’s wearing her dark Valiant clothes. 

His dad stands next to him, lifts his arm across his shoulders, and helps Stiles across the room.

“Why are you wet?” Allison asks.

“They tried to drown me,” Stiles says. “Why are you here?”

“My grandfather. He didn’t want me to be in the crossfire. He pulled me out after the member ceremony,” she says. “But I didn’t want to go back with him, so I broke out of his house and found everyone here. I didn’t want to be apart of this. I don’t want to be apart of this. I’m pretty sure I’m sectorless now.”

“I’m sure we both are, Allison." The woman nest to her snaps. Kate.

“No, you aren’t,” Stiles's dad says sternly. “You’re with us.”

Allison glances at Kate, scowling, “You didn’t have to come with me."

“Oh please. Dad doesn’t want me around anyway. Besides, I couldn’t let my niece out all by herself, could I?” Kate smirks, and Stiles wants to punch it off her.

He shakes his head. He kneels on the pallet and Allison cuts a piece of his shirt away from his shoulder with a pair of medical scissors. Allison peels the square of fabric away, revealing first the Valiant tattoo on his stab wound and second, the self tattoo on his wrist. Both his father and his mother stare at both tattoos with the same look of fascination and shock but say nothing about them.

Stiles lies on his stomach. Allison squeezes his palm as his mother gets the antiseptic from the first aid kit.

“Have you ever taken a bullet out of someone before?” he asks, a shaky laugh in his voice.

“The things I know how to do might surprise you, Mischief,” his mother replies.

A lot of things about his parents might surprise him. Stiles bites his lip.

“This will hurt,” she says.

Stiles doesn’t see the knife go in, but he feels it. Pain spreads through his body and he screams through gritted teeth, crushing Allison’s hand. Over the screaming, he hears his mom ask him to relax his back. Tears run from the corners of his eyes and he does as she tells him. 

The pain starts again, and Stiles feels the knife moving under his skin, and he’s still screaming.

“Got it,” she says. She drops something on the floor with a ding.

Allison looks at Stiles's father and then at Stiles, and then she laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Stiles asks, sniffling and smiling.

“I never thought I would be in this situation,” she says, addressing Stiles, and then sparing a look back at Scott’s still lifeless body.

Stiles’s mom cleans the skin around his wound with something cold. “Stitching time,” she says.

Stiles nods. She threads the needle like she’s done it a thousand times.

“One,” she says, “two. . .three.”

Stiles clenches his jaw and stays quiet this time. Of all the pain he has suffered today—the pain of getting shot and almost drowning and taking the bullet out again, the pain of finding and losing Derek, this is the easiest to bear.

His mother finishes stitching his wound, ties off the thread, and covers the stitches with a bandage. Allison helps him sit up and separates the hems of her two shirts, pulling the long-sleeved one over her head and offering it to Stiles.

His dad helps him guide his right arm through the shirt sleeve, and he pulls the rest over his head. It’s tight across his torso and smells fresh, smells like Allison.

He helps Stiles to his feet. Time to face the rest of the room. His dad told him to save them. Because of that, and because he’s Valiant, it’s his duty to lead now. He has no idea how to bear that burden.

He hears a moaning then, and turns around to see Scott getting up off the ground. For a second, Stiles thinks that ripping the serum capsule out of his neck didn’t work, judging by his gold eyes and extended claws, but then his claws retract and his eyes dim down back to their natural color. Stiles feels a relieved breath leave his lungs.

“Welcome back, Scotty.” He says, pulling Scott into a hug. Scott looks shocked, but hugs him back regardless.

“Stiles - I. . .those people - I don’t - “ Scott stumbles out, running a hand through his hair after they’re done hugging.

“It’s alright, Scotty. It wasn’t your fault.” Stiles says, rubbing his back.

Allison runs up to him then, jumping into Scott’s arms and kissing him. Stiles has to look away. He doesn’t want to think about kissing right now.

After everyone is calmed down, Scott holding Allison close like he’s afraid to let go, and Allison kissing him until Stiles thinks Scott might die of oxygen deprivation, the room goes quiet, and Stiles can tell no one knows what to do know.

Kate gets up. A vision of her whipping Stiles's arm with the ship rushes into his mind when he see her, and his chest squeezes.

“We are only safe here for so long,” Kate says eventually. “We need to get out of the city. Our best option is to go to the Amity compound in the hope that they’ll take us in. Do you know anything about the Valiant strategy, Mieczysław? I might have heard your name mentioned by my dad.” She shrugs, then grows serious again, "Will they stop fighting at night?”

“It’s Stiles.” He snaps, biting his tongue, “And it’s not Valiant strategy. This whole thing is masterminded by the Tutelage. And it’s not like they’re giving orders.”

“Not giving orders,” his dad says slowly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Stiles says, “ninety percent of the Valiant are sleepwalking right now. They’re in a simulation and they don’t know what they’re doing. The only reason I’m not just like them is that I’m. . .” Stiles hesitates on the word. “The mind control doesn’t affect me.”

“Mind control? So they don’t know that they’re killing people right now?” his mother asks him, her eyes wide.

“No.”

“That’s. . .awful.” Kate shakes her head. Her sympathetic tone sounds manufactured to Stiles. “Waking up and realizing what you’ve done. . .”

The room goes quiet, probably as all the Idem (and Tutelage in Kate and Allison’s place) imagine themselves in the place of the Valiant soldiers, and that’s when it occurs to Stiles.

“We have to wake them up,” he says.

“What?” Kate asks.

“If we wake the Valiant up, they will probably revolt when they realize what’s going on,” he explains. “The Tutelage won’t have an army. The Idem will stop dying. This will be over.”

“It won’t be that simple,” Stiles’s dad says. “Even without the Valiant helping them, the Tutelage will find another way to—”

“And how are we supposed to wake them up?” Kate says.

“We find the computers that control the simulation and destroy the data,” Stiles responds. “The program. Everything.”

“Easier said than done,” Scott says. “It could be anywhere. We can’t just appear at the Tutelage compound and start poking around.”

“It’s. . .” Stiles frowns. Gerard. Gerard was talking about something important when he and Derek came into his office, important enough to hang up on someone. They can’t just leave it undefended. And then, when he was sending Derek away: Send him to the control room. The control room where Derek is uncannily good with computers. With the Valiant security monitors. And the Valiant computers.

“It’s at the Valiant compound,” Stiles says. “It makes sense. That’s where all the data about the Valiant is stored, so why not control them from there?”

Stiles faintly registers that he said ‘them.' As of yesterday, he technically became Valiant, but he doesn’t feel like one. And he’s not Idem, either.

He guesses he is what he's always been. Not Valiant, not Idem, not sectorless. Aberrant.

“Are you sure?” his father asks.

“It’s an informed guess,” Stiles says, “and it’s the best theory I have.”

“Then we’ll have to decide who goes and who continues on to Amicitia,” he says. “What kind of help do you need, Stiles?”

The question stuns him, as does the expression he wears. He looks at him like he's a peer. He speaks to Stiles like he’s a peer. It shocks Stiles and makes him smile at the same time.

“Anyone who can and will fire a gun,” he replies, “and isn’t afraid of heights.”

 

Tutelage and Valiant forces are concentrated in the Idem sector of the city, so as long as they run away from the Idem sector, they are less likely to encounter difficulty.

Stiles didn’t get to decide who was coming with him. Allison was the obvious choice, since she knows the most about the Tutelage plan. Kate insisted thats he go, despite Stiles's protests, because she is good with computers and apparently knows just as much as Allison. And Stiles’s dad knew his place was assumed from the beginning, because ehe knows the Valiant compound just as well as Stiles.

Scott also came, due to his fighting skills.

Stiles watch the others, including his mother (after an extremely tearful goodbye), run in the opposite direction—toward safety, toward Amicitia—for a few seconds, and then he turns away, toward the city, toward the war. They stand next to the railroad tracks, which will carry them into danger.

“What time is it?” Stiles asks Scott.

He checks his watch. “Three twelve.”

“Should be here any second,” Stiles replies.

“Will it stop?” Kate asks.

Stiles, Allison, Scott and Stiles’s dad all shake their heads. “It goes slowly through the city. We’ll run next to the car for a few feet and then climb inside.”

Jumping on trains seems easy to him now, natural. It won’t be as easy for Kate, but they can’t stop now. Stiles looks over his left shoulder and sees the headlights burning gold against the gray buildings and roads. He bounces on the balls of his feet as the lights grow larger and larger, and then the front of the train glides past him, and he starts jogging. When he sees an open car, he picks up his pace to keep stride with it and grabs the handle on the left, swinging himself inside. The pain that emulates knocks the air out of his lungs.

His dad jumps, landing hard and rolling on his side to get in, and he helps Kate. They move away from the doorway, but Stiles stands on the edge with one hand on a handle, watching the city pass.

If he were Gerard, he would send the majority of Valiant soldiers to the Valiant entrance above the Hole, outside the glass building. It would be smarter to go in the back entrance, the one that requires jumping off a building.

“I assume you now regret choosing Valiant,” Kate says.

Stiles is surprised someone else didn’t ask that question, but everyone, like him, is watching the city. The train passes the Tutelage compound, which is dark now. It looks peaceful from a distance, and inside those walls, it probably is peaceful. Far removed from the conflict and the reality of what they have done.

Stiles shakes his head.

“Not even after your sector’s leaders decided to join in a plot to overthrow the government?” Kate spits.

“Only after your sector started it?” Stiles challenges. Kate just scoffs, crossing her arms.

Stiles turns back around from looks at her, mumbles, “There were some things I needed to learn.”

“How to be brave?” his dad says quietly.

“How to be deferential,” Stiles responds. “Often they’re the same thing.”

“Is that why you got Idem’s symbol tattooed on your pelvis?” Scott asks. Stiles is sure that he sees a smile in his dad’s eyes.

Stiles smiles faintly back and nod. “And Valiant over my stab wound.”

 

The glass building above the Hole reflects sunlight into his eyes. He stands, holding the handle next to the door for balance. Almost there.

“When I tell you to jump,” he says, “you jump, as far as you can.”

“Jump?” Kate asks. “We’re seven stories up, Stiles.”

“Onto a roof,” he adds, rolling his eyes. Seeing the stunned look on her face, he says, “That’s why they call it a test of bravery.”

Half of bravery is perspective. The first time Stiles did this, it was one of the hardest things he had ever done. Now, preparing to jump off a moving train is nothing, because he has done more difficult things in the past few weeks than most people will in a lifetime. And yet none of it compares to what he is about to do in the Valiant compound. If he survives, he will undoubtedly go on to do far more difficult things than even that, like live without a sector, something he never imagined possible.

“Dad, you go,” Stiles says, stepping back so he can stand by the edge. If he and Kate go first, he can time it so they have to jump the shortest distance. Hopefully he, Scott, and Allison can jump far enough to make it, because they’re younger. It’s a chance Stiles has to take.

The train tracks curve, and when they line up with the edge of the roof, Stiles shouts, “Jump!”

His dad bends his knees and launches himself forward. Stiles doesn’t wait to see if he makes it. He shoves Kate forward and shouts, “Jump!”

His dad lands on the roof, so close to the edge that Stiles gasps. He sits down on the gravel, and Stiles pushes Allison in front of him. She stands at the edge of the train car and jumps without thought. Stiles grins. He takes a few steps back to give himself a running start, Scott right next to him, and, holding hands, they both leap out of the car just as the train reaches the end of the roof.

For an instant Stiles is suspended in nothingness, and then his feet slam into cement and he stumbles to the side, away from the roof’s edge. His knees ache, and the impact shudders through his body, making his shoulder throb. He sits down, breathing hard, and looks across the rooftop. Scott and his dad stand at the edge of the roof, their hands around Kate’s arms. She didn’t make it, but she hasn’t fallen yet.

Somewhere inside him, a vicious voice chants: fall, fall, fall.

But she doesn’t. His dad and Scott haul her onto the roof. Stiles stands up, brushing gravel off his black pants. The thought of what comes next has him preoccupied. It’s one thing to ask people to jump off a train, but a roof?

“This next part is why I asked about fear of heights,” Stiles says, walking to the edge of the roof. He hears their shuffling footsteps behind him and steps onto the ledge. Wind rushes up the side of the building and rushes through his hair. Stiles stares down at the hole in the ground, seven stories below him, and then closes his eyes as the air blows over his face.

“There’s a net at the bottom,” Stiles says, looking over his shoulder. Kate and his dad look look confused. They haven’t figured out what Stiles is asking them to do yet.

“Don’t think,” he says. “Just jump.”

Stiles turns, and as he turns, he leans back, compromising his balance. He drops like a stone, his eyes closed, one arm outstretched to feel the wind. He relaxes his muscles as much as he can before he hits the net, which feels like a slab of cement hitting his shoulder. He grits his teeth and rolls to the edge, grabbing the pole that supports the net, and swings one leg over the side. He lands on his feet on the platform, his eyes stinging.

Scott laughs as the net curls around his body and then straightens. Stiles stands with some difficulty.

“Scott!” he hisses. “Over here!”

Breathing deeply, Scott crawls to the side of the net and drops over the edge, hitting the platform hard. He pushes himself to his feet and stands next to Stiles.

“Never gets, does it, buddy?” he asks between laughs.

“Twice now,” Stiles says, chuckling.

He just shakes his head, a smile on his face.

When Stiles’s dad hits the net, Scott helps him across. When he stands on the platform, he smiles and pats Stiles on the back. Allison is next, whooping as she comes down, a large smile on her face. Stiles descends the stairs, and when he gets to the bottom, he hears Kate hit the net with a groan.

“You Valiant are. . .crazy.” Kate gasps.

Stiles bites his tongue to stop himself from shooting a sarcastic remark back.

The cavern is empty and the hallways stretch into darkness.

Gerard made it sound like there was no one left in the Valiant compound except the soldiers he sent back to guard the computers. If they can find Valiant soldiers, they can find the computers. He looks over his shoulder. Kate stands on the platform, white as a sheet but unharmed.

“So this is the Valiant compound,” she says, an eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” Stiles says. “And?”

“And I never thought I would get to see it,” she replies, her hand skimming a wall. “No need to be so defensive, Mieczysław.”

Stiles hadn’t noticed how cold her eyes were in the simulation, but there they are, icy and dark.

“Do you have a plan, Stiles?” his dad asks.

“Yes.” And it’s true. He does, though he’s not sure when he developed it.

He's also not sure it will work. He can count on a few things: There aren’t many Valiant in the compound, the Valiant aren’t known for their subtlety, and he'll do anything to stop them.

They walk down the hallway that leads to the Hole, which is striped with light every ten feet. When they walk into the first patch of light, Stiles hears a gunshot and drops to the ground. Someone must have seen them. He crawls into the next dark patch. The spark from the gun flashed across the room by the door that leads to the Hole.

“Everyone okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” his dad responds.

“Stay here, then.”

Stiles runs to the side of the room. The lights protrude from the wall, so directly beneath each one is a slit of shadow. Stiles is small enough to hide in it, if he turns to the side. He can creep along the edge of the room and surprise whatever guard is shooting at them before he gets the chance to fire a bullet into Stiles's brain. Maybe.

One of the things Stiles thanks Valiant for is the preparedness that eliminates his fear.

“Whoever’s there,” a voice shouts, “surrender your weapons and put your hands up! ”

Stiles turns to the side and presses his back to the stone wall. He shuffles quickly sideways, one foot crossing over the other, squinting to see through the semi darkness. Another gunshot fires into silence. He reaches the last light and stands for a moment in shadow, letting his eyes adjust.

Stiles can’t win a fight, he’s only a human, but if he can move fast enough, he won’t have to fight. His footsteps light, Stiles walks toward the guard who stands by the door. A few yards away, he realizes that he knows that dark hair that always gleams, even in relative darkness, and those clawed bare-feet.

It’s Kali.

Cold slips over his skin and around his heart and into the pit of his stomach.

Her face is tense—she isn’t a sleepwalker. She looks around, but her eyes search the air above her and beyond Stiles. Judging by her silence, she doesn’t intend to negotiate with them; ehe will kill them without question.

Stiles licks his lips, sprints the last few steps, and thrusts the heel of his hand up. The blow connects with her nose, and she shouts, bringing both hands up to cover her face. His body jolts with nervous energy and as her eyes squint, Stiles kicks her in the groin. She drops to her knees, her gun clattering to the ground. Stiles grabs it and presses the barrel to the top of her head.

“How are you awake?” he demands.

She lifts her head, her red eyes gleaming, and Stiles clicks the bullet into its chamber, raising an eyebrow at her.

“The Valiant leaders. . .hey evaluated my records and removed me from the simulation,” she says.

“Because they figured out that you already have murderous tendencies and wouldn’t mind killing a few hundred people while conscious,” Stiles say . “Makes sense.”

“Can't argue with that.”

“I never knew a Probity who was such a liar.” Stiles taps the gun against her skull. “Where are the computers that control the simulation, Kali?”

“You won’t shoot me.”

“People tend to overestimate my character,” Stiles says quietly. “They think that because I’m small, or a human, or a Squatter, I can’t possibly be cruel. But they’re wrong.”

Stiles shifts the gun three inches to the left and fires at her arm.

Her screams fill the hallway. Blood spurts from the wound, and she screams again, pressing her forehead to the ground. Stiles shifts the gun back to her head, ignoring the pang of guilt in my chest.

“Now that you realize your mistake, and I’m sure that even a werewolf can;t heal from a headshot,” Stiles says when Kali already starts healing, “I will give you another chance to tell me what I need to know before I shoot you somewhere worse.”

Another thing Stiles can count on: Kali is not selfless.

She turns her head and focuses a bright eye on Stiles. Her teeth close over her lower lip, and her breaths sigh on the way out. And on the way in. And on the way out again.

“They’re listening,” she spits. “If you don’t kill me, they will. The only way I’ll tell you is if you get me out of here.”

“What?”

“Take me with you,” she says, glaring.

“You want me to take you,” Stiles says, “the person who tried to kill me. . .with me?”

“I do,” she groans. “If you expect to find out what you need to know.”

It feels like a choice, but it isn’t. Every minute that Stiles wastes staring at Kali, thinking about how she haunts his nightmares and the damage she did to him, another dozen Idem members die at the hands of the brain-dead Valiant army.

“Fine,” Stiles says, almost choking on the word. “But you only get to flee with Ennis. After that, you’re no longer my problem, and if I find you useless, I will kill you.”

Stiles hears footsteps behind him. Holding the gun steady, he looks over his shoulder. His dad and the others walk towards him.

“Was it really necessary to shoot her?” Kate asks, looking at Stiles like he’s absolutely lost his mind.

Stiles don’t dignify her with an answer.

“Sometimes pain is for the greater good,” says Allison calmly.

In Stiles’s head, he see Kate standing before Derek with a whip in hand and hears her voice echo. This is for your own good. Stiles looks at her for a few seconds. Does she really believe that Kali, a bad person, didn’t deserve to suffer? It sounds like something the Tutelage would say.

“Let’s go,” Stiles says. “Get up, Kali.”

“You want her to walk?” Kate demands. “Are you insane?”

“Did I shoot her in the leg?” Stiles asks sarcastically. “No. She walks. She’s already healing. Where do we go, Kali?” Kali steps to her feet.

“The glass building,” she says, scowling. “Eighth floor.”

She leads the way through the door.

Stiles walks into the roar of the river and the dark glow of the Hole, which is emptier now than Stiles has ever seen it before. He scans the walls, searching for signs of life, but he sees no movement and no figures standing in darkness. He keeps his gun in hand and starts toward the path that leads to the glass ceiling. The emptiness makes him shiver. It reminds him of the endless field in his hawk simulator.

“What makes you think you have the right to shoot someone?” Kate asks as she follows him up the path. They pass the tattoo place. Where is Danny now? And Lydia? Isaac? Jackson?

“Now isn’t the time for debates about ethics,” he replies.

“Now is the perfect time,” she says, “because you will soon get the opportunity to shoot someone again, and if you don’t realize—”

“Realize what?” Stiles says without turning around. “That every second I waste means another Idem dead and another Valiant made into a murderer? I’ve realized that. Now it’s your turn.”

“There is a right way to do things.”

“What makes you so sure that you know what it is?” Stiles asks.

“Please stop fighting,” Allison interrupts, her voice chiding. “We have more important things to do right now.”

Stiles keeps climbing, his cheeks hot. A few months ago he would not have dared to snap at anyone, let alone a were-creature  A few hours ago he might not have done it either. But something changed when they shot his family. When they took Derek.

Stiles hears his dad chuckle over the sound of rushing water. Stiles forgot that he is older than he is, that his frame can no longer tolerate the weight of his body.

Before Stiles ascends the metal stairs that will carry him above the glass ceiling, he waits in darkness and watches the light cast on the Hole walls by the sun. Stiles watches until a shadow shifts over the sunlit wall and counts until the next shadow appears. The guards make their rounds every minute and a half, stand for twenty seconds, and then move on.

“There are men with guns up there. When they see me, they will kill me, if they can,” he tells his father quietly. Stiles searches his eyes. “Should I let them?”

He stares at him for a few seconds.

“Go,” his dad says, “and make it back.”

Stiles climbs the stairs carefully, stopping just before his head emerges. Stiles waist, watching the shadows move, and when one of them stops, he steps up, points his gun, and shoots.

The bullet does not hit the guard. It shatters the window behind him. Stiles fires again and ducks as bullets hit the floor around him with a ding. Thank God the glass ceiling is bulletproof, or the glass would break and he would fall to his death.

One guard down. Stiles breathes deeply and puts just his hand over the ceiling, looking through the glass to see his target. He tilts the gun back and fires at the guard running toward him. The bullet hits him in the arm. Luckily it’s his shooting arm, because he drops his gun and it skids across the floor.

His body shaking, Stiles launches himself through the hole in the ceiling and snatches the fallen gun before he can get to it. A bullet whizzes past his head, so close to hitting him that it moves his hair. Eyes wide, he flings his right arm over his shoulder, forcing a searing pain through his body, and fire three times behind him. By some miracle, one of the bullets hits a guard, and his eyes water uncontrollably from the pain in his shoulder. He’s ripped my stitches. He's sure of it.

Another guard stands across from him. Stiles lies flat on his stomach and points both guns at him, his arms resting on the floor. He stares into the black pinprick that is his gun barrel.

Then something surprising happens. He jerks his chin to the side. Telling Stiles to go. He must be Aberrant.

“All clear!” Stiles shouts.

The guard ducks into the fear landscape room, and he’s gone.

Slowly, he gets to his feet, holding his right arm against his chest. He has tunnel vision. He's running along this path and he will not be able to stop, will not be able to think of anything, until he reaches the end.

Stiles hands one gun to Scott and slides the other one under his belt.

“I think you and Kate and Allison should stay here with her,” Stiles says, jerking his head toward Kali. “She’ll just slow us down. Make sure no one comes after us.”

He hopes Scott doesn’t understand what he's doing—keeping him here so he stays safe, even though he would gladly give his life for this. If Stiles goes up into the building, he probably won’t come back down. The best he can hope for is to destroy the simulation before someone kills him. When did he decide on this suicide mission? Why wasn’t it more difficult?

“I can’t stay here while you go up there and risk your life,” says Scott.

“I need you to,” Stiles says.

Kali scoffs and glares. Her face glistens with sweat. For a second he almost feels bad for her, but then he remembers Ethan, and the itch of fabric over his eyes as his attackers blindfolded him, and his sympathy is lost to hatred. Scott eventually nods.

Stiles approaches one of the fallen guards and takes his gun, keeping his eyes away from the injury that killed him. His head pounds. Stiles hasn’t eaten; he hasn't slept; he hasn’t sobbed or screamed or even paused for a moment. He bites his lip and pushes himself toward the elevators on the right side of the room. Level eight.

Once the elevator doors close, He leans the side of his head against the glass and listens to the beeps.

He glances at his dad.

“That was brave of you, protecting your friends like that,” his dad says. “Stiles, I—”

The elevator reaches the eighth floor and the doors open. Two guards stand ready with guns in hand, their faces blank, their eyes blue. Stiles's eyes widen, and he drops to his stomach on the ground as the shots go off. He hears bullets strike glass. The guards slump to the ground, one alive and groaning, the other fading fast. His dad stands above them, his gun still held out from his body.

Stiles stumbles to his feet. Guards run down the hallway on the left. Judging by the synchronicity of their footsteps, they are controlled by the simulation. Stiles could run down the right hallway, but if the guards came from the left hallway, that’s where the computers are. Stiles drops to the ground between the guards his father just shot and lies as still as he can.

His dad jumps out of the elevator and sprints down the right hallway, drawing the Valiant guards after him.Stiles claps his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming at him. That hallway will end.

He tries to bury his head so he doesn’t see it, but he can’t. He peers over the fallen guard’s back. His father fires over his shoulder at the guards pursuing him, and Stiles thinks he’s not going to be fast enough, and one of them fires at his stomach, but his dad just dodges it and lets the bullet graze him before taking them all out.

Stile lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Dad,” Stiles says. He means for it to be a shout, but it is just a wheeze.

His dad looks to him and smiles, “I got this, kid. Go try to stop this. I’ll guard the door."

Stiles nods and his body relaxes.

For every second that he wastes, another Idem member dies. There is only one thing left for him to do now, and it is to destroy the simulation.

He pushes himself up and runs down the hallway, turning right at the end. There is only one door ahead. He opens it.

The opposite wall is made up entirely of screens, each a foot tall and a foot wide. There are dozens of them, each one showing a different part of the city. The Wall. The Choosing building. The streets in the Idem sector, now crawling with Valiant soldiers. The ground level of the building below them, where Scott, Allison, Kate, and Kali wait for him to return. It’s a wall of everything he has ever seen, everything he has ever known.

One of the screens has a line of code on it instead of an image. It breezes past faster than he can read. It is the simulation, the code already compiled, a complicated list of commands that anticipate and address a thousand different outcomes.

In front of the screen is a chair and a desk. Sitting in the chair is a Valiant soldier.

“Derek,” Stiles says.

Derek's head turns, and his dark eyes shift to him. His eyebrows draw in. He stands. He looks confused. He raises his gun.

“Drop your weapon,” he says.

“Derek,” Stiles says again, “you’re in a simulation.”

“Drop your weapon,” Derek repeats. “Or I’ll fire.”

Gerard said he didn’t know him. Gerard also said that the simulation made Derek’s friends into enemies. Derek will shoot him if he has to.

Stiles sets his gun down at his feet.

“Drop your weapon!” shouts Derek. His eyes are a blazing red, even brighter than they were before.

“I did,” Stiles says. A little voice in his head sings that Derek can’t hear him, he can’t see him, he doesn’t know him. Tongues of flame press behind Stiles's eyes. He can’t just stand there and let Derek shoot him.

Stiles runs at him, grabbing his wrist. He feel his muscles shift as he pinches the trigger and ducks his head just in time. The bullet hits the wall behind him. Gasping, Stiles kicks him in the ribs and twists his wrist to the side as hard as he can. Derek drops the gun.

Stiles can’t beat Derek in a fight. He knows that already. But he has to destroy the computer. Stiles dives for the gun, but before he can touch it, Derek grabs him and wrenches him to the side.

Stiles stares into his dark, conflicted eyes for an instant before he punches him in the jaw. Stiles's head jerks to the side and he cringes away from Derek, flinging his hands up to protect his face. Stiles can’t fall; he can’t fall or Derek’ll kick him, or claw him, and that will be worse, that will be much worse. Stiles kicks the gun back with his heel so Derek can’t grab it and, ignoring the throbbing in his jaw, kicks him in the stomach.

Derek catches his foot and pulls him down so he falls on his shoulder. The pain makes Stiles's vision go black at the edges. He stares up at Derek. Derek pulls his foot back like he’s about to kick him, and Stiles rolls onto his knees, stretching his arm out for the gun. He doesn’t know what he’ll do with it. Stiles can’t shoot him, won't shoot him, he can’t. He’s in there somewhere.

Derek grabs Stiles by his hair and yanks him to the side. Stiles reaches back and grabs his wrist, but he’s too strong and Stiles's forehead smacks into the wall.

He’s in there somewhere.

“Derek,” Stiles says.

Did his grip falter? He twists and kicks back, his heel hitting Derek in the leg. When his hair slips through Derek's fingers, Stiles dives at the gun and his fingertips close around the cool metal. He flips over onto his back and points the gun at Derek. Derek looms over him.

“Derek,” Stiles yells. “I know you’re in there somewhere.”

But if he was, he probably wouldn’t start toward Stiles like he’s about to kill him for certain this time.

Stiles's head throbs.

“Derek, please.” He's begging. But he’s not pathetic. He’s fighting for someone he loves. Loves. He loves Derek. Tears make his face hot. “Please. See me.” Derek walks toward him, his movements dangerous, fast, powerful. The gun shakes in Stiles's hands. “Please _see me_ , Derek, _please!_ ”

Even when Derek scowls, his eyes look thoughtful, and Stiles remembers how his mouth curled when he smiled.

Stiles can’t kill him. He loves him. He won’t do this.

Stiles has done this before—in his fear landscape, with the gun in his hand, a voice shouting at him to fire at the people he loves. He volunteered to die instead, that time, but he can’t imagine how that would help him now. But he suddenly just knows, knows what the right thing to do is.

His dad always told him that there is power in self-sacrifice.

Stiles turns the gun in his hands and presses it into Derek’s palm.

He pushes the barrel into his forehead. Stiles's tears have stopped and the air feels cold as it touches his cheeks. He reaches out and rests his hand on Derek's chest so he can feel his heartbeat. At least his heartbeat is still him.

The bullet clicks into the chamber. Maybe it will be as easy to let him shoot him as it was in the fear landscape, as it is in Stiles's dreams. Maybe it will just be a bang, and the lights will lift, and Stiles will find himself in another world. He lays still and waits as Derek pins him to the floor with his body.

Can he be forgiven for all he's done to get here? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

_Please._

But the shot doesn’t come. Derek stares at him with the same ferocity but doesn’t move. Why doesn’t he shoot him? His heart pounds against Stiles's palm, and his own heart lifts. He is Aberrant. He can fight this simulation. Any simulation.

“Derek,” Stiles says. “It’s me.”

Stiles leans forward and wraps his arms around him. His body is stiff. His heart beats faster. Stiles can feel it against his cheek. A thud against his cheek. A thud as the gun hits the floor. He grabs Stiles's shoulders—too hard, his fingers digging into the skin where the bullet was. Stiles cries out as he pulls him back. Maybe Derek means to kill him in some crueler way.

But before anything happens, Derek lets go abruptly, brokenly says, “ _Stiles_ ,” and it’s him again. His mouth collides against Stiles’s.

His arm wraps around Stiles and he lifts him up, holding him against him, his hands clutching at Stiles's back. Derek's face and the back of his neck are slick with sweat, his body is shaking, and Stiles's shoulder blazes with pain, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care.

Derek sets him down and stares at him, his fingers brushing over Stiles's forehead, his eyebrows, his cheeks, wiping away tears and then against his lips.

Something like a sob and a sigh and a moan escapes Derek, and he kisses Stiles again. His eyes are bright with tears. Stiles never thought he would see Derek cry. It makes his heart hurt.

Stiles pulls himself to Derek's chest and cries into his shirt. All the throbbing in his head comes back, and the ache in his shoulder, and Stiles feels like his body weight doubles. He leans against Derek, and Derek supports him.

“How did you do it?” he asks..

“I don’t know,” Derek says. “I just heard your voice.”

After a few seconds, Stiles remembers why he's there. He pulls back and wipes his cheeks with the heels of his hands and turns toward the screens again. He sees one that overlooks the drinking fountain. Derek was so paranoid when he was railing against Valiant there. He kept looking at the wall above the fountain. Now Stiles knows why.

He and Derek stand there for a while, in each other’s arms, and Stiles thinks he knows what Derek’s thinking, because he's thinking it too: How can something so small control so many people?

“Was I running the simulation?” he asks, horrified.

“I don’t know if you were running it so much as monitoring it,” Stiles says reassuringly.

“It’s already complete. I have no idea how, but Gerard made it so it could work on its own.” He shakes his head. “It’s. . .incredible. Terrible, evil. . .but incredible.”

Stiles sees movement on one of the screens and sees Scott, Allison, Kate, and Kali standing on the first floor of the building. Surrounding them are Valiant soldiers, all in black, all carrying weapons.

“Derek,” Stiles says tersely. “ _Now!_ ”

He runs to the computer screen and taps it a few times with his finger. Stiles can’t look at what he’s doing. All he can see is Scott, his brother. He holds the gun Stiles gave him straight out from his body, ready to use it. Stiles bites his lip. _Don’t shoot._ Derek presses the screen a few more times, typing in letters that make no sense to Stiles. _Don’t shoot them._

Stiles sees a flash of light—a spark, from one of the guns—and gasps. Scott, Allison, Kate, and Kali crouch on the ground with their arms over their heads. After a moment they all stir, so Stiles knows they’re still alive, and the Valiant soldiers advance. A cluster of black around  them.

“ _Derek,_ ” Stiles chokes out helplessly.

He presses the screen again, and everyone on the first floor goes still. Their arms drop to their sides.

And then the Valiant move. Their heads turn from side to side, and they drop their guns, and their mouths move like they’re shouting, and they shove each other, and some of them sink to their knees, holding their heads and rocking back and forth, back and forth.

All the tension in Stiles's chest unravels, and he sits down, heaving a sigh. Derek crouches next to the computer and pulls the side of the case off. “I have to get the data,” he says, “or they’ll just start the simulation again.”

Stiles watches the frenzy on the screen. It’s the same frenzy that must be happening on the streets. He scans the screens, one by one, looking for one that shows the Idem sector of the city. There is only one—it’s at the far end of the room, on the bottom. The Valiant on that screen are screaming —chaos. Black-clothed men and women drop to the ground. People sprint in every direction. Everyone seems to be crying.

“Got it,” says Derek, holding up the computer’s hard drive. It’s a piece of metal about the size of his palm. He offers it to Stiles, and Stiles shoves it in his back pocket.

“We have to leave,” Stiles says, getting to his feet. He points at the screen on the right.

“Yes, we do.” Derek wraps his arm across his shoulders. “Come on.”

They walk together down the hallway and around the corner. His dad stand by the elevator and he raises his gun altho he noise, but immediately drops it when he sees them. He smiles softly at Stiles.

“You did it, kiddo.”

Stiles erupts in a sob then, moving from Derek’s side an collapsing into his dad’s arms. They stay like that for a moment, Derek watching them, and then pull apart. Stiles wipes his tears, and his dad pulls his jaw up to examine the forming bruise as Stiles winces.

“What happened?”

Stiles looks back at Derek, who looks down in shame, “It’s alright, Dad.”

His dad just nods, tuning towards the elevator and pressing the buttons. Derek comes up next to him, taking his weight.

“I’m really sorry.” Stiles tries to make eye contact but Derek won’t even look at him.

Stiles moves and grabs Derek’s face, pushing his lips to Derek’s, and pulls back again and says, “I don’t blame you, Der. It’s alright.”

Derek just nods, but Stiles knows he feels horrible inside, blaming himself for every bad thing that has happened to Stiles since they were separated.

And that breaks Stiles’s heart.

 

Stiles is not really aware of his surroundings after that. There is an elevator and a glass room and a rush of cold air. There is a shouting crowd of Valiant soldiers dressed in black. He searches for Scott’s face, but it is nowhere, nowhere until they leave the glass building and step out into sunlight.

Scott runs to him when he walks through the doors, and Stiles falls against him. He holds him tightly.

“You did it, Stiles,” he says.

Stiles chuckles, pulling away,

“Well,” he says, almost choking on the word, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Scott smiles at him, running his fingers softly over the claw marks on his cheek. Stiles flinches back. “I’m so sorry about that, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugs, “It’s alright, Scotty. You weren’t you."

Scott shrugs, scratching his head. Over Scott’s shoulder, Stiles sees Derek stop in the middle of a footstep. His entire body goes rigid as his eyes focus on Kate. In the rush to destroy the simulation, Stiles forgot to warn him.

Kate walks up to Derek and wraps her arms around him. Derek stays frozen, his arms at his sides and his face blank. Stiles watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down and his eyes lift to the ceiling.

“Derek! I missed you so much!” sighs Kate.

Derek winces.

“Hey,” Stiles says, pulling away from Scott. He remembers the whip stinging on his wrist in Derek’s fear landscape and slips into the space between them, pushing Kate back. “Hey. Get away from him.”

Stiles feels Derek’s breaths against his neck; they come in sharp bursts. “Stay away,” he hisses.

“Stiles, what are you doing?” asks Scott as Allison comes to stand next to him.

“Stiles,” Derek says.

Kate gives him a scandalized look that seems false to Stiles—her eyes are too wide and her mouth is too open. If Stiles could find a way to smack that look off her face, he would.

“Not all those Tutelage reports were full of lies,” Stiles says, narrowing his eyes at Kate.

“What are you talking about?” Kate says with a scowl. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, Stiles, but—”

“The only reason I haven’t shot you yet is because he’s the one who should get to do it,” Stiles says. “Stay away from him or I’ll decide I no longer care.”

“Don’t deny it, Kate. My dad told me everything.” Allison says, fury in her eyes.

“Oh? And what exactly did my dear brother tell you, Allison?” Kate replies, her hands on her hips.

“Did he tell you that she used to put me in a crate when I was being ‘bad?’ Or that she used to whip me when I wouldn’t submit to her? Or that she used to violate me everyday for an entire year? Or,” Derek says, chuckling bitterly, “that she set my house on fire to kill my entire family when I threatened to kill her if she touched me again?”

Everyone is silent at Derek’s words, and a couple of tears slips from his eyes. He blinks them away.

Derek’s hands slip around Stiles's arms and squeeze. Kate’s eyes stay on Stiles's for a few seconds, before she looks down in shame, and Stiles can’t help but see them as black pits, like they were in Derek’s fear landscape. Then he looks away.

“We have to go,” Derek says unsteadily. “The train should be here any second.”

They walk over unyielding ground toward the train tracks. Derek’s jaw is clenched and he stares straight ahead. Stiles feels a twinge of regret. Maybe he should have let him deal with his abuser on his own.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Derek replies, taking Stiles's hand. His fingers are still shaking.

“If we take the train in the opposite direction, out of the city instead of in, we can get to Amicitia,” Stiles says. “That’s where the others went.”

“What about Probity?” his dad asks. “What do you think they’ll do?”

Stiles doesn’t know how Probity will respond to the attack. They wouldn’t side with the Tutelage—they would never do something that underhanded. But they may not fight the Tutelage either. Governing is hard.

They stand next to the tracks for a few minutes before the train comes. Eventually, Derek picks him up, because he's dead on his feet, and Stiles leans his head into Derek's shoulder, taking deep breaths of his skin. Since he saved Stiles from the attack, Stiles has associated his smell with safety, so as long as he focuses on it, Stiles feels safe now.

The truth is, Stiles will not feel safe as long as Kate is with them. Kali must have slipped away after the liberation, because Stiles doesn’t see her know. He tries not to look at Kate, but he feels her presence like he would feel a blanket over his face. The cruelty of fate is that he must travel with the person he hates along with the people he loves.

Where are Lydia and Isaac now? Or Jackson? Wandering the streets, plagued with guilt for what they’ve done? Or turning guns on the people who forced them to do it? Or are they already dead too? Stiles wishes he knew. But he met never know.

At the same time, Stiles hopes he never finds out.

The train comes, and Derek sets him down so they both can jump on. Stiles jogs a few steps next to the car and then throws his body to the side, landing on his left arm. He wiggles his body inside and sits against the wall. Scott and his dad sits across from him, and Derek sits next to me, forming a barrier between his body and Kate. His enemy. Derek's enemy.

The train turns, and Stiles sees the city behind them. It will get smaller and smaller until they see where the tracks end, the ocean beyond. The kindness of Amicitia will comfort them for a while, though they can’t stay there forever. Soon the Tutelage and the corrupt Valiant leaders will look for them, and they will have to move on.

Derek pulls him against him. They bend their knees and their heads so that they are enclosed together in a room of their own making, unable to see those who trouble them, their breath mixing on the way in and on the way out.

“My pain,” Stiles starts, “was not your fault."

Even though Stiles said it, Derek looks like he’s the one who is in pain.

“If I wouldn’t have been separated from you,” he replies. “you wouldn’t have been hurt.”

Stiles nods, and his eyes follow the line of Derek's jaw.

“Or almost drowned in a tank.”

“What.”

“Derek, it’s alright. I’m okay, if only a little sore.” Stiles chuckles. Derek moves closer to him then, and gently grapes Stiles’s wrist and lays his palm over the self tattoo. Stiles feels an euphoric feeling wash over him like ice water, and Derek’s veins are a deep black as Stiles’s pain is literally taken from his body.

Stiles gasps, “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I did it when you were attacked, too. You just didn’t notice.” Derek smiles at him, but then grows serious.

“You nearly died today,” he says. “I almost shot you. Why didn’t you shoot me, Stiles?”

“I couldn’t do that,” Stiles replies, shaking his head. “It would have been like shooting myself.”

Derek looks pained and leans closer to him, so his lips brush Stiles’s when he speaks.

“I have something to tell you,” he says.

Stiles runs his fingers along the tendons in Derek's hand and looks back at him.

“I might be in love with you.” He smiles a little, and Stiles’s heart skips a beat. “I’m waiting until I’m sure to tell you, though.”

“That’s sensible of you,” Stiles says, smiling too. “We should find some paper so you can make a list or a chart or something.”

Stiles feels his laughter against his side, Derek's nose sliding along his jaw, his lips pressing behind Stiles's ear.

“Maybe I’m already sure,” he says, “and I just don’t want to frighten you.”

Stiles laughs a little. “Then you should know better.”

“Fine,” he says. “Then I love you.”

Stiles leans and kisses him as the train slides into unlit, uncertain land. He kisses him for as long as he wants, for longer than he should, given that his dad sits three feet away from him.

He pulls back and smiles, “Derek?”

“Hmm?”

“I think I’m in love with you, too.”

Derek’s smile is blinding as their lips collide again. It’s nothing like any of their other kisses. This one is full of passion and love, along with desire and lust and everything in between.

They stay like that for a while, basking in each other, feeling the winds blow through their hair, neither of them knowing what’s going to happen next.

Stiles reaches into his pocket and takes out the hard drive that contains the simulation data. He turns it in his hands, letting it catch the fading light and reflect it. Kate’s eyes cling greedily to the movement. Not safe. Not quite.

Stiles clutches the hard drive to his chest, leans his head on Derek’s shoulder, and tries to sleep.

 

Idem and Valiant are both broken, their members scattered. They are like the sectorless now. Stiles doesn’t know what life will be like, separated from a sector—it feels disengaged, like a leaf divided from the tree that gives it sustenance. They are creatures of loss; they have left everything behind. Stiles has no home, no path, and no certainty. His is no longer Stiles, the submissive, or Stiles, the brave. He supposes that now, he must become more than either.

And as long as he has Derek, he supposes that everything will be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think? Sequel?
> 
> Come say hi to me on tumblr! [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/zaynsgirl3000)


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